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IN TWO MOODS 


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TWO MOODS 





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STEPNIAK AND WM. WESTALL 




A'J'ITIORS OF 



“THE BLIND MUSICIAN” 





NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Encouraged by the praises bestowed on The 
Blind Musician, by the press, and the popularity it 
has achieved with the public, we have rendered 
into English two more of Kerolenko’s stories — In 
Two Moods and In Bad Society, both of which are 
included in the present volume. 

The latter, a delightful little tale of childish joys 
and sorrows, strange scenes and queer characters, 
speaks for itself and requires no comment from us. 

But the other. In Two Moods, demands a few 
words of explanation — for being in some sense a 
fragment it is not necessarily self-explanatory, as 
complete works of art naturally are. Moreover, 
as the circumstances in which the story was writ- 
ten and published, required on the part of the 
author considerable reticence and many veiled 
allusions, the reader must in many instances read 
between the lines. 


6 


INTROD UCTION. 


In Two Moods, like Turguenev's Virgin Soil, 
deals with young revolutionary Russia, struggling 
through darkness towards freedom and light. 

The characters being taken almost exclusively 
from the student class, English readers may im- 
agine that political struggle in Russia is carried on 
by children. This is not so. Russian youth are 
almost abnormally versatile and precocious, and 
the active life of thought and feeling begins with 
them at a much earlier age than with the youth of 
England and other European countries, and it is 
in Russian high schools that this activity finds its 
most earnest expression. This is a historic fact, 
and we mention it here only lest the reader may 
deem Gavrik’s psychologic meditations as being 
too deep and complicated and his views of life too 
broad for a young man of twenty. 

Gavrik is a typical young Russian of 1873-5, ^ 
period which marked the beginning of militant 
Nihilism. The story as a whole is concerned with 
the revolutionary movement. Urmanov is a de- 
cided revolutionist. ‘‘The Samoyedes ” are Rus- 
sians thinly disguised, to hoodwink the censorship. 
The meeting at the villa, so vividly described in 
the second part of the story, is a revolutionary 
meeting, as revolution goes in Russia. The pam- 


INTRODUCTION, 


7 

phlet on the great debt owing by the educated and 
the rich to the poor and ignorant, read at the 
meeting, could not be other than the well-known 
Historical Letter of the notorious Peter Lavrotf, 
who for many years was the recognized chief of 
the Russian refugees in Paris. The final resolu- 
tion which many of the students adopt, and is 
accepted in the end by the pure-hearted, high- 
minded girl Tonia, the lovable heroine of the 
sketch, is nothing less than “to go’' among the 
people as preachers of socialism. The “group" 
to which Gavrik belonged, and which is several 
times mentioned in the course of the story, is en- 
gaged in an “actual conspiracy against existing 
institutions " to cite the usual official description. 
To Russians this is so obvious that all who run may 
read. Thus we have in Kerolenko’s narrative the 
nucleus of a Nihilist novel which, however, it is 
not likely that he will ever be allowed to complete. 
Yet with that power of concentration and capacity 
for expression of which born artists only have the 
secret, he has said much within the short space 
measured out to him. No other writer has de- 
scribed so vividly and picturesquely, and with 
such convincing fidelity that idealistic generation, 
who * ‘ lived on arguments, fell in love over argu- 


8 INTRODUCTION, 

ments, suffered and rejoiced in a cloud of argu- 
ments,” and who believed that they should live to 
see the “ bright future, the full new life” of which 
they dreamt. 

In this story Kerolenko has graphically por- 
trayed the Russian youth of the period in ques- 
tion. Some of the characters are remarkably well 
drawn. Tonia, Titus, the Sokolovs are true to the 
life. But it is in the tout ensemble — the picture re- 
garded as a whole — that Kerolenkos growing 
power is here shown at its best. The first part of 
In Two Moods, is a song of youth, love, enthu- 
siasm and exuberant life dyeing rose-color every- 
thing which it touches. Few writers have done 
aught so brilliant, warm, and fresh, and there are 
bits of description, such as the evening walk by 
the lake shore which only an artist of poetic genius 
and consummate ability could achieve. 

The second half of the story is of a different 
character. It abounds in psychologic analysis, 
and it is conceivable that certain readers may find 
some parts of it rather heavy. On the other hand, 
it is neither so heavy nor so dry — not so scientific 
in fact — as some parts of The Blind Musician, Still 
there is too much of it. Nevertheless we have not 
abbreviated In Two Moods as we abbreviated The 


INTRODUCTION, 


9 

Blind Musician. Kerolenko is no longer a novice 
whose artistic individuality is without interest for 
his readers. He has been recognized as one of 
the new lights of Russian fiction, and it is right 
that his readers should know him as he is, and 
learn that though he has splendid gifts he is not 
free from faults. S. Stepniak. 

December 20, 1890. 




IN TWO MOODS 


I. 

I Must begin with my boyish enthusiasms. 

I was nineteen years old in those days, and a 
student at the Petrovsky Academy. 

Of course, that is a good age to be at ; and then 
and early days of college life, and the academy out 
in the suburbs, by the lake, among the green parks ; 
the young college friends, and students’ meetings, 
and work, and discussions ; — all this made it seem 
as if we were going to accomplish something — 
something quite grand and out of the common, 
which would make everybody happy — and that we 
ourselves should be perfectly happy ever after- 
wards. 

Nothing less — happy I I dreamt of great deeds, 
of struggle, of sacrifice ; but in strife, and action. 


12 


IN TWO MOODS, 


and struggle, even in sacrifice, there was ever the 
idea of happiness— bright, complete, all-pervading 
happiness. 

And besides that, there was she. 

At the time I speak of, however, she was away. 
She had gone to the Volga in the spring to serve as 
cashier on a steamboat. 

Theoretically, steamer cashiers are always men 
— naturally. But that is a mere bit of red tape, and 
not only had she succeeded in obtaining the post ; 
she had done much more— kept it for two summers. 
We all considered this a very important matter. 
There are plenty of cashiers in the world, yet none 
of them seemed to me to be doing anything worth 
doing : they just hand out tickets, and receive a 
wretched little salary. But of female cashiers — 
at least female steamer cashiers— there was only 
one, and her work seemed to me not work merely 
but a kind of mission. I was enraptured by the 
energy of this girl — still little more than a child — 
who by her strenuous courage and resolution had 
gained for herself the right of independent labor, 
and succeeded through all difficulties in keeping 
the place which she had won. On first making her 
acquaintance, I felt that I had found something 
which I had long been seeking in my vague day- 


IN TWO MOODS 


*3 

dreams, and there awakened within me quite a 
peculiar sensation which irradiated with its bright- 
ness all my other hopes and ecstasies. For the 
rest, I never breathed a word about love either to 
her or in my own mind. 

She went away ; but I knew that, so soon as the 
navigation should stop for the winter, she would 
come back and stand again in a corner of the room 
at our students' meetings with her fair face, so 
expressive and full of life, thrown into strong relief 
by her dark dress. And again, her eyes would light 
up with childlike curiosity at our discussions, and 
flash with joyous approval when I happened to 
voice her own unspoken thought — and hei cheeks 
would glow with the bright color brought from 
the health-giving Volga. 

When she was present, whatever questions we 
discussed interested and enlivened me ; but even 
without her, life was very bright. We had just fin- 
ished the practical part of the academy course, and 
were having a vacation before the lectures began. 
We spent our time amusing ourselves, reading and 
talking. 


14 


IN TWO MOODS. 


II. 

I WELL remember the peculiar mood I was in at 
that time. 

When I was a child, my greatest though for- 
bidden delight was to go secretly into a wretched 
little shop and buy a sausage for three-half pence. 
Long afterwards, as a grown-up man, I hunted all 
the great provision shops in St. Petersburg for just 
such another sausage — one with the same flavor, 
but I never found what I sought. Sometimes, in 
the mingled odors of a sausage shop, I half recog- 
nized that particular smell, yet all the same I could 
not find it. That is quite natural : what I was 
really looking for were my childhood and the keen 
appetite of my infant years, and naturally I could 
not find them. If my simile seems to you too pro- 
saic, change the sausage into an apple, or a peach, 
or anything you like. The fact remains the same. 
And this is why I mention it : every period of life 
has its own special flavor, the particular character 


IN TWO MOODS. 


15 

of which we do not notice at the time. But so 
soon as the present is become the past and has 
moved a little way off from us, these peculiar char- 
acteristics of life stand out clear and call us back 
to them ; whereupon we regret the past, and wonder 
how it was we took so little notice of the enchanted 
atmosphere while it was round us, and failed to 
enjoy it consciously and to the full. 

A few years pass : once more the present be- 
comes the past, and we see again that it too, in its 
turn, had its own beauty, its own peculiar flavor. 
But when, on looking backward, we feel nothing 
save weariness or disgust — that is sad indeed. It 
means that life has lost its savor. 

However, all this is off the point As I was 
saying — at that period of my life, everything I went 
through, everything I felt, everything my intellect 
or imagination grasped, received a particular hue. 

I read a great deal and learned much. Perhaps 
my learning was somewhat one-sided ; in any case 
when I read those same authors over again now I 
find in them much which somehow escaped my 
notice then. On the other hand, passages which 
once appeared all important have faded into the 
general perspective and lost all character. 

In every book I read, it was my habit to observe 


i6 


IN TWO MOODS, 


several distinguishing points which sank into my 
mind and became part of my own recollections. 
Thus, in Bokel I noticed especially, among others, 
that passage where he suggests a reason for the 
slavery of Ireland. The Irish, he says, are not 
free because they live on potato broth, while their 
conquerors eat flesh meat. 

That is quite true. In any case, it is as true as 
the other proposition, that if the Irish were to be- 
come free and shake off the yoke of the English 
lords, they would probably choose nourishing beef- 
steaks in preference to potato broth. But in those 
days it did not occur to me to look at the other side 
of the medal and seek for deeper reasons. I 
accepted Bokel’s theory about meat and potatoes 
with all the warmth of a proselyte. His deduc- 
tions were so simple, so clear; his lines seemed 
to be drawn so straight ; first of all, — yes just that, 
first of all — a “fowl in the pot,” and meat instead 
of potato broth, and meat for everybody. And 
after that, all which threw a light on the veracities 
of life : truth, justice, beauty, liberty, and the serv- 
ing of higher interests generally. . . . Certainly 
that is rather a lot for one life. . . . But there was 
so much time before me — a whole eternity. 

Another favorite writer of mine was Vogt. His 


IN TWO MOODS, 


17 

portrait hung in my room, with the inscription : 
“Gegen Dummheit kampfen Gotter selbst verge- 
bens." The accuracy and solidity of scientific 
thought affected me in the same way that beauty 
affects its adorers. I simply worshipped this de- 
stroyer of metaphysical prejudices, and in my eyes 
his device placed him on the pedestal of a Titan or 
demigod. The gods fought against stupidity in 
vain, but the great man fights not in vain. Poor 
great man ! I did not know that already he had 
been given the lie in the very metaphysics he so 
hated, and that stupidity had shown its power by 
creeping even into his own works. 

‘ ‘ Thought is a secretion of the brain, as bile is 
of the liver." This seemed to me both new and 
brilliant. I saw in it the passionless proclamation 
of truth, and in my jealous proselytism was ready 
to follow it out to its logical conclusion. Yes, like 
bile— like all other secretions — and nevertheless, 
there was hardly a thing that I worshipped as I 
worshipped thought. 

In those days we lived on arguments, fell in love 
over arguments, suffered and rejoiced in a cloud 
of arguments : our tragedies, the raptures and sor- 
rows of rejected love, all these had their origin in 

** warring opinions. ” Evidently, history, for some 

z 


1 8 IN TWO MOODS. 

abstruse reason, needed a contentious genera^ 
tion. 

But I will not weary you with a list of the Rus- 
sian and foreign authors whom I loved and believed, 
in at that time. You can form an idea of my in- 
tellectual condition from the two examples I have 
already given. I went to the lectures, though I 
did not care much about them, never missed a 
students’ meeting, studied — in the strict sense of the 
word — little, but worked and read much. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


19 


III. 

The holidays were coming to an end and the lect- 
ures would soon recommence. The chill of autumn 
was already in the air, the water of the lake grew 
dark and dull ; in the flower-beds the gardeners re- 
place the early summer flowers with their successors 
of the fall. Here and there, a few leaves fading early, 
dropped from the trees, shining like gold against 
the background of shady avenues. 

The fields had turned yellow, and the railway 
trains, passing within two versts of the academy, 
stood out clearer, and seemed to pass closer than 
in the summer. Mine was the last room in the top 
story of the “ state," or students’ lodgings, and part 
of the railroad was visible from my window. The 
trains would come out from behind the hills, then 
disappear, leaving only a white trail of steam float- 
ing above the horizon. Then the entire train would 
reappear further on, and I could see the tiny car- 
riages, like toys, running along the line. I could 


20 


IN TWO MOODS. 


even distinguish the wheels, and the windows 
glittering in the sunset. Next, the white ribbon of 
steam would suddenly break as the train, after 
gliding under the bridge, disappeared in a deep cut- 
ting. The hoarse voice of it died away gradually, 
and with its last echoes faded the last rays of day- 
light. 

Titus (the friend who shared my room) and I 
used then to leave the window, and, while waiting 
for the regulation tea-urn to boil, would lie down 
on our beds in the twilight and talk of heaven 
knows what, while the evening chill streamed in at 
our window from the fields. 

It was a pleasant life. 

Among my fellow-students at that time were 
several who afterwards won distinction in different 
pursuits. You are familiar with their names — 
names of gifted and honorable workers. And yet 
if in those days any one had raised for me, as the 
rhetoricians say, “the curtain of the future,” and 
shown them to me as they are now, I should have 
felt insulted ; — it would have seemed so petty in 
comparison with what I expected. Indeed, I must 
confess that however high I placed, for instance, 
Vogt, Buchner, Sechen off, or Buckle, I felt at times 
that a certain trace of the old world lingered abuot 


IN TWO MOODS. 


21 


them still. But we were to develop into something 
quite special — altogether 'new and unexceptional 
people, such as never lived before. It seemed to 
me that there was a something in my soul, now 
latent, yet none the less plainly felt. And when it 
expanded ! . . . Absurd, was it not ? Neverthe- 
less I was neither arrogant nor vain. I dreamt 
neither of wealth nor power, neither of distinction 
nor fame. I never thought myself a genius. I 
merely dreamt that in me and my fellow-students 
there existed, as it were, buds wherein lay hidden 
and ready to unfold and come forth, the bright, 
future, the full new life. . . . 

At that time there was in the Academy a certain 
Urmanov. He was two terms ahead of me, and 
we were not particularly intimate. In spite of 
which, or perhaps because of it, he roused in me a 
peculiar, almost romantic interest Urmanov was 
a native of the Arkhangelsk ioundra ( Arctic 
wastes). That is, he was born in the town of 
Arkhangelsk itself, in the family of a poor official 
engaged in the salt industry. But in my imagina- 
tion his somewhat foreign, good-looking face was 
indissolubly associated with the idea of the toun- 
dra. A lowering sky — snow all round — wretched 
huts, smoke faintly curling above them — reindeer 


22 


IN TWO MOODS, 


cropping the scanty grass. The ioundra sleeps — 
the people sleep — the reindeer sleep; and from 
the distance floats a hardly audible dreary song, 
full of hopeless grief. All the enchanted kingdom 
sleeps, until — well, just until Urmanov has finished 
studying at the academy. Then, armed with 
knowledge, gained in the lecture halls or other- 
wise, he will turn aside from all temptations of 
civilization, from the love of women (this unques- 
tionably 1 ) — overcome all the allurements of per- 
sonal life, and return to his gloomy native land. 
Then at last it will be spring-time in the ioundra, 
the songs will ring out clearer, the Samoyedes* 
will awaken from their sleep of centuries to the 
new life, to the struggle for their rights, for the 
downtrodden rights of man. The young genera- 
tion of the Samoyedes will gather round Urmanov, 
and he will speak to them of their “glorious past'’ 
(taking for granted that Samoyedes, like other peo- 
ple, have a glorious past) — will teach them to unite 
with the best forces of other nations in a quest for 
the general good of humanity. 

* The author, evidently meant his Urmdnov to be a Revolu- 
tionist, a “Nihilist,” a Russian patriot in a word. The Samoy 
edes are put in simply to mislead the censorship. 


Translators, 


IN TWO MOODS. 


n 


All this, among other things, was depicted in a 
long poem, which 1 wrote during my first term. 
The poem left something to be desired in the mat- 
ter of rhyme and measure ; nevertheless, when I 
read it to my chum and old school-fellow, Titus, 
even that extremely sedate and practical personage 
was enraptured and prophesied for me undying 
poetic fame. The poem closed with the following 
picture : “ The aurora borealis gleams faintly 

across the interminable plain, the snow glitters 
with reflected fire, the sledge-board creaks, the 
reindeers dash over the frozen waste ; a Samoyed 
courier, with full comprehension of his mission, is 
bringing Urmanov’s exhortation to ‘the great 
Samoyed nation.’” 

There — don’t laugh ! Youth always dreams ; — 
perhaps later on those dreams may become wiser, 
more practical ; but whether they will become bet- 
ter, honester — that I doubt. 


24 


IN TWO MOODS, 


I 


IV. 


Urmanov had a slightly turned-up nose and 
prominent cheek-bones. These features seemed 
to point to a strain of foreign blood. Otherwise, 
his face was rather handsome and interesting. He 
had fiery black eyes, glittering with animation, 
and long dark curls falling on his neck from under 
the broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat which he 
always wore, after the student fashion of the day. 
His figure was much too lithe for a Samoyed's ; his 
movements were rapid, and I do not remember 
any one whose personal appearance presented so 
perfect an example of that peculiar grace, and even 
in its way elegance, peculiar to students. His dress 
was far from being fashionable — indeed it was 
rather shabby — his coat was very threadbare, and 
showed plentiful traces of laboratory work in the 
form of acid-made stains. Nevertheless, whatever 
sort of garments Urmanov might wear, they al- 
ways suited his slender figure to perfection, and 


IN TWO MOODS. 


25 

every- one could recognize him as a student at the 
first glance. 

His face, as also his figure, reflected faithfully- 
and with extraordinary- mobility the shifting moods 
of his expansive and impressionable nature. At 
our students’ meetings he would argue hotly, ges- 
ticulating frantically, sometimes raising his voice 
to a savage roar. It was, indeed, almost impossi- 
ble to argue with Urmanov, and his antagonists 
generally found it expedient to leave him in pos- 
session of the battle-field, good-humoredly retreat- 
ing before his attacks. For the rest, Urmanov al- 
ways cooled down as quickly as he flared up, and 
in half-an-hour s time would be ready to take up 
arms in defence of the very comrade whom he had 
just accused of being false to his principles and a 
traitor to his cause. Latterly, however, he had 
grown more self-restrained, and was less ready to 
express his extreme opinions at our meetings : he 
became sadder and more thoughtful. Somebody 
or other remarked that Urmanov was lowering his 
tone because he had reached his last term, and 
scented afar off the final examination and the com- 
ing degree. As a rule, we did not find it particu- 
larly difficult to justify these accusations ; in fact, 
to speak the truth, they very often were justified. 


26 


IN TWO MOODS. 


The jump from the unconditional rejection of all 
compromises to the acceptance of the most com- 
plex, was generally made but too often at the first 
step from the academy into the world. I did not 
know whether, or how, Urmanov would make that 
step ; but I passionately denied so insulting a sug- 
gestion, feeling much more inclined to suppose 
that the consciousness of his approaching great 
mission to the Samoyedes had cast over Urmanov 
that shade of gravity and melancholy in which I 
contrived to see something grand and noble. 
What were our mutual help funds, our “students* 
protests,” to him, when the “sorrow and anguish 
of centuries” were wafted to him from his “native 
toundra ? ’* 

It turned out, however, that both Urmanovs 
antagonists and myself were equally at fault. The 
cause of his melancholy and his seriousness, as 
also of a certain indifference to our affairs and our 
differences, was both simpler and more emotional. 

It was embodied in the small, slender and char- 
acteristic figure of a young woman, whom, though 
she was Russian born and bred, we had named 
“the American.** None of the students knew her 
personally ; we were even ignorant of her name. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


27 


V. 

Besides attempting the poem which I have al- 
ready mentioned, I, like many other young men 
at my age, dreamt of writing a gigantic novel. All 
the persons in it were to be heroes and heroines of 
a type altogether exceptional, “new people,” extra- 
ordinary characters. Several of these heroes floated 
vaguely in my imagination, and among them was 
always an American. The Yankees are a very 
clever race, and have a wonderful Constitution ; 
nevertheless, a thorough-going Yankee who esti- 
mates everything by a monetary standard, and 
even says of himself, ‘ ‘ I am worth so many dollars, ” 
most certainly would not do for one of the heroes 
of my novel. My American must be a Russian, 
aspiring to become an American. 

At that time America attracted many people, and 
I knew of several cases of emigration. Of course, 
to become simply an American with dollars did 
not amount to much. But the mere fact of the 
venture — the fresh energy with which these young 


28 


IN TWO MOODS, 


men flung themselves into an unknown land, in- 
toxicated by its freedom and the novelty of its social 
relations — this in itself was enough to attract and 
impress me. 

I had not yet fully examined the results of even 
one of these ventures, and therefore, had no idea 
how my hero would act when he was settled in his 
adopted country. So far, I pictured him as a tall 
man, with a little beard cut in American fashion, 
wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, and with a cold, 
restrained smile, beneath which I could vaguely 
discern something very grave and significant. 

Now, you can easily understand the interest that 
a live Russian American woman, both young and 
pretty, kindled in me and my fellow-students. 

She appeared on our horizon while she was 
spending the summer at a villa in the neighbor- 
hood. The first time I saw her was in the park ; 
she was walking arm-in-arm with her father, an old 
retired general. He was gray, bent, and rather 
deaf, and wore a huge green shade to protect his 
eyes from the sun. It seemed to cost him a great 
effort to lift up his big, drooping head. Yet, none 
the less, when I happened to pass before the old 
man as he sat resting on a seat, he always raised 
his head and stared at me with his faded eyes, 
even looking after me in a way which made me 


IN TWO MOODS. 


29 

feel uncomfortable. His lower jaw trembled as 
though he wanted to say something, and his eyes 
protruded as though he was making up his mind 
to stop me and reprove me sternly for being young, 
for being a student, for having “views,’' and prob- 
ably not respecting generals as much as I ought 
to do. 

This half-shattered figure appeared in the park 
all the summer through, accompanied by an old 
footman of most forbidding aspect, and gained a 
certain notoriety among the students. Somebody 
nicknamed him “General Ferapontyev,” and the 
appellation stuck. Although, apparently, the name 
itself implied nothing insulting, it was always used 
with a certain suggestion of irony. It expressed 
the silent antagonism between the decrepit general 
and the heedless academic youth. 

And now for some time there had appeared, 
walking arm-in-arm with General Ferapontyev, a 
pretty young woman. The very notoriety of the 
general, helped to whet our curiosity touching 
his fair companion. But apart from this circum- 
stance, there was something in the young woman’s 
face and figure which attracted our attention, and 
marked her out from the motley crowd of summer 
visitors. 


30 


IN TWO Moons. 


VI. 

I HAVE no gift for describing the detail of ladies’ 
dress, but it has always seemed to me that every 
“ fashion ” has its peculiar expression. It is worth 
while to observe how the expression of faces them- 
selves alters with a change in fashion. To bold, 
open faces with high foreheads and direct glances, 
bespeaking a desire for independence and contempt 
of generally accepted prejudices, succeeded low 
foreheads covered with fringes, and eyes with 
painted lids and a helplessly naive, even foolish, 
gaze, with a look in them which suggested that 
they were begging for mercy. As for low cut 
bodices, and absurdly narrow dresses, I dare not 
affirm it positively, but I have heard from most 
trustworthy sources that many ladies tied cords 
round their legs under their gowns a little below 
the knee, in order that no full and free movement 
might disturb the general appearance of helpless 
innocence — yielding passively for better or worse — 
which their wearers affected. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


31 

Men of fashion at this time assumed conquering 
and insolent airs. The same low foreheads and 
protruding eyes ; shirt-collars wide open, showing 
the throat, and with turned-back points sticking up 
to the ears. With this went loose coats, hands in 
waistcoat pockets and a careless and swaggering 
gait. The general effect was that of an impudent 
coxcomb who has flung off all prejudices, cares for 
nobody, and gives no quarter. 

Such was the outward expression of fashion in 
those days, and it was lucidly explained to me by 
a very native boarding-school girl. To some crit- 
ical remark of mine on the question of dress, she 
replied, with the unconscious logic of a young girl 
of the period, “Why, how can you say that? For- 
ward girls used to be the fashion, but now retiring 
ones are coming into vogue.” On this I burst out 
laughing ; but I see now that it was a piece of fine 
observation. 

The young lady who walked with General 
Ferapontyev had a way of her own about clothes, 
although she dressed well, and even richly. If 
she followed any fashion at all it was evidently not 
ours. Everything she wore was simple, elegant^ 
and easy. Her little feet, in their high kid boots 
with broad low heels, showed freely beneath her 


IN TWO MOODS. 


32 

short skirt. I remember how firmly and evenly 
her heels struck the stone pavements and the steps 
of the garden stairs. Altogether, her walk was re- 
markable for a peculiar firmness and boldness 
which, in combination with her small figure, pro- 
duced a very original impression. 

The first time I succeeded in seeing her closely, 

I could not make up my mind whether she pleased 
me or not. I was walking with Urmanov along 
the principal avenue, when the General and the 
lady came towards us. As we met, Urmanov 
raised his hat The old gentleman turned round, 
and his jaw trembled more than usual. The lady 
looked at us in perplexity, and the gaze of her 
large eyes, steady, cold and unabashed, so distracted 
my attention that I failed to observe the general 
character of her face. 

“I suppose she did not recognize me,” said Ur- 
manov, somewhat confused. “ I met her in Mos- 
cow, but there were a lot of people there. Do you 
like her?” he asked suddenly, with unexpected 
vivacity. 

‘‘Her face strikes me as cold. I don’t like such 
cold faces,” I replied. 

“She’s an American,” said Urmanov half to him- 
self, as if in defence of the lady, and glanced back. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


33 


American That was quite another matter. 
Now her face appeared to me exquisite, and its cold 
expression quite becoming. It fully corresponded 
with the restrained and somewhat dim look with 
which my fancy had invested the half-American 
hero of my future novel. 

“ What is she doing here ? ” I asked. 

“She is on a visit to her father. She’s the 
daughter of that — Ferapontyev.” 

Ferapontyev’s daughter ! Who would have 
thought it of the old General ? He has an American 
daughter then ! For her sake I forgave the General 
his green shade, and his trembling jaw, and his 
forbidding looks. A general who has for daughter 
an American must needs be freer from old-fashioned 
prejudices than other generals. 

But Urmanov instantly smashed the General’s 
reputation, and this time finally. 

“ He is a fearful tyrant, this Ferapontyev,” he 
remarked, kicking away a pebble in the road. 

“Ah ! then, what is she doing here? Why did 
she come from America ? ” 

“Well, you see, . . . that is a whole history.” 

A shade passed over Urmanov’s expressive face. 
I put it down to indignation against the old general. 

“She went to America with the man she loved, 

3 


IN TWO MOODS. 


34 

You understand . . . without a marriage cere- 
mony. He set up some business in Boston. ... 
What their purpose was — the deuce knows ! But that 
is not the question. At first they got on capitally — 
then some troubles — about business, I think. . . . 
Everything will be lost if she cannot get some 
money. Well, you must know, she has inherited a 
fortune — a good large one, too — from her mother. 
But old Ferapontyev contrived to get conditions 
put into the will : his daughter can only get the 
money with his consent, or in case of his death, or 
else . . . the brute ! when she shall contract a 
legal marriage in Russia ! ” 

A few steps- further on Urmanov shook hands 
with me — (he had to go to the Museum) — and 
remarked at parting : — 

“ So that’s the story. He, — the^ American, that 
is, can’t return and marry her. That’s what it 
comes to.” 


IN TWO MOOTS. 


35 


VIL 

This story made at first no particular impression 
on me. I did not think that the failure of a busi- 
ness was any very great misfortune, especially in 
America. It happens there so often ! But this 
was merely a momentary feeling. Of course, it 
was not a mere business concern for the accumula- 
ton of dollars. Behind that, without doubt, was 
something else, just the something which the half- 
American of my imagination would hate if he had 
a business office in Boston. . . . 

I now looked with hatred upon “that Ferapont- 
yev ” returning from his walk. So that was what 
he was — a conventional old parasite, eating away 
two young lives, demanding of his own daughter 
at once infidelity and a false oath ! To me she 
seemed an enchanted princess in the power of an 
old ogre. 

She was walking beside her father, with her 
usual calm look of dignity, as if conscious of her 


36 IN TWO MOODS. 

own integrity and obviously without any idea of 
trying to act oppressed innocence. She ministered 
to the old man simply and easily, and he, on his 
part, received her attentions with an air of fastid- 
ious distrust. For the rest, one could sometimes 
see that the young woman found it difficult to 
walk slowly, restraining the natural vivacity of her 
movements ; a certain impatience showed through 
her reserve. 

After she had accompanied her father back to 
the villa, she always came out again for a walk 
alone. It was then that I used to notice the sharp, 
hurried beat of her heels upon the stairs and pave- 
ment. The lithe figure seemed to fly along the 
paths, quivering all over, and moving her shoulders 
in a curious way, as if compressing a thousand 
separate efforts into that nervous step. She always 
took these walks in the dusk, and she would plunge 
resolutely into the dark avenues alone. On one of 
these occasions, unable to restrain my sympathetic 
interest in the little American lady, I yielded to 
my curiosity and followed her — of course at a 
respectful distance. She walked rapidly down the 
straight main avenue, and stood hesitating a 
moment by the pool, evidently undecided as to 
whither she should wend. Then, turning into a 


IN TWO MOODS. 


37 

si depath she disappeared among the trees, in the 
direction of the grotto. 

To follow her further would have been insolence- 
so I turned back ; but this solitary walk by dark 
and lonely paths, late in the autumn evening, gave 
a finishing touch to the outline of the American 
which I had pictured in my mind. Everything 
about her was complete and harmonious, just as I 
had imagined a ‘ ‘ heroine ” to be, and it impressed 
me delightfully. 


38 


IN TWO MOODS. 


VIII. 

The lectures was not yet begun. Meanwhile the 
physical weariness caused by the practical work 
had gone off, and there were times when I did not 
know what to do with the glorious autumn, with 
my leisure, and with that vague, pleasant, yet ex- 
hausting sensation which continually sought new* 
forms, — exciting and impelling me, I knew not 
whither. 

At these moments I used to take a book and go 
to the railway station, to meet the evening passen- 
ger train. 

The road to the station was perfectly straight and 
thickly set with double rows of larch-trees, planted 
along the sidewalks. From the distance the whole 
road looked like one unbroken green wall. After 
one had walked a few yards the academy, the state- 
buildings, the farm, and everything else were quite 
hidden by the trees. In either direction could be 
seen nothing but the narrow avenue, strewn with 


IN TWO MOODS. 


39 

small rubble stones, which in their turn were 
covered with the fast falling larch needles. Rays 
of sunlight played on the sand and among the 
greenery ; the thick, tufted boughs, touched here 
and there with autumn tints, like gold, kept up a 
soft, half-liquid murmur. Here I felt myself in com^. 
plete solitude, and gave the rein to the vague sen- 
sations which unfolded themselves, free and un- 
trammelled, in my heart. I cannot say, exactly, 
of what I used to think ; only all that was pleasant 
to think of and dream of at other times seemed here 
to unite in a melodious chorus of feeling, — youth, 
strength, bright views of life, and still brighter 
hopes ! The rays of light shimmer and play 
through the trees far and near, as silently as if they 
too were dreams. And it seems as though some- 
thing or some one were passing in the far distance 
through the shifting lights and shadows. 

Sometimes as I walked I read. Glancing through 
those books, even now, I identify at once the pages 
I read in the larch-avenue ; the same soft murmur 
and the same green checkered light and shadow 
seem to hover round them still. 

One day when I went to the station I saw 
Urmanov there. He was standing on the platform, 
and looking towards Moscow. The railroad, a 



40 


IN TWO MOODS, 


double line, ran between bare embankments and 
was flanked with a row of tall telegraph poles. 
One could see the rails far off, always narrowing, 
till at the last they faded away in the distance ; and 
above them floated the peculiar smoke or mist, 
which shows the presence of a large and busy town, 
hidden behind rising ground. 

“Can you see the train?” asked Urmanov ; 
“ your sight is better than mine.” 

“No, I can't see it.” 

‘ ‘ What is that ? Like ...” 

These long narrow vistas ending in a mist are 
very deceptive ; if you gaze into them with expecta- 
tion, they begin to stir, and then, expanding, appear 
full of spots and take strange shapes. But as I 
was not in an expectant mood I answered indiffer- 
ently : — 

“ That is the smoke and fog of Moscow. You 
seem to be expecting some one. ...” 

“ No, I just . . . that is ... ” 

He broke off in confusion, and instantly began 
talking of something else. 

The conversation flagged, and I buried myself in 
my book. Urmanov looked continually along the 
line. At last, the train appeared, first as a dark 
speck in the quivering mist ; soon, the speck 


IN TWO MOODS. 


4 


vanished, reappeared, and began to grow. When 
the train drew quite near, the guard's hand came 
out at the side, waving a flag to the engine-driver. 
The locomotive drew up, rattling, screaming and 
roaring ; the tank passed us, then the luggage-van, 
then two or three carriages. Finally, the entire 
monster, filling up the space a minute before so 
quiet, quivered, stopped, jerked a little backwards 
— and out of it sprang the American lady. 

She stopped short, and looked at us both in per- 
plexity. I thought, at first, that she was going to 
come up to me, butUrmanov, with a movement of 
nervous haste, went suddenly up to her. 

“Mr. Urmanov ?" she asked. “Ah, it is you ! — 
and I thought ...” 

Then, lightly taking his arm, she led him into 
the sidewalk. 

“There then! I am very glad. . . . You do not 
look such a hobble-de-hoy as you used to do . . . ” 
I heard her say laughing, as they continued their 
walk down the avenue. 

The huge train, which had only stopped to cast 
out of its breast of wood and iron this daring little 
figure, moved on again heavily, groaning and 
shrieking. The last carriages passed me at full 
speed, the rails creaked and groaned, the platform 
quivered and shook. 


42 


IN TWO MOODS. 


When I, in my turn, reached the mound where 
the highroad began, Urmanov and the American 
were some way off. They were walking arm-in- 
arm and she was leaning towards him with singular 
gracefulness, yet somehow it seemed, not that he 
was leading her, but that this nervous little woman 
was carrying off the fiery young patriot. Some- 
times she stopped short, speaking excitedly and 
raising her head to him. Then, he would stand 
still in confusion and ill at ease, and when she 
dashed abruptly on again he tried in vain to keep 
time with her quick short steps. 

I somehow understood what it was all about. 
A fictitious marriage, no doubt. Probably she had 
raised the question in Moscow and been told of 
Urmanov, who, very likely had already declared 
himself willing to take a leading part in the pro- 
posed comedy. It was all so natural. This way 
out of the difficulty had come spontaneously into 
my head and into the heads of many of my fellow- 
students with whom I had discussed the subject. 
I was even a little envious of Urmanov. I re- 
membered her momentary hesitation when she 
stood wondering to which of us to turn, and her 
evident joy when she saw that Urmanov was the 
one she sought That was doubtless due to my 


IN TWO MOODS, 


43 

being so young and looking so boyish. Old Fera- 
pontyev would perhaps have laughed at so juvenile 
a bridegroom. 

But it was a real pleasure to me to look at those 
two from the distance. Assuredly Urmanov was 
just the right person to walk arm-in-arm with my 
heroine. It was beautiful, it was excellent, and it 
delighted me greatly. 

From that day forward Urmanov accompanied 
the American lady on her evening walks, and when 
he met her by day walking in the avenues with the 
General, he raised his hat respectfully. The Gen- 
eral at first regarded his daughter dubiously, but 
after a time he began to return the young man's 
greetings. At length, as I sat one day on a bench 
in the main avenue, I saw her formally introducing 
Urmanov to her father. They were near the lake ; 
the water was as smooth as a mirror, and reflected 
the figure of the General with his eye-shade like 
an absurd silhouette — a caricature in black paper. 
Urmanov raised his hat and respectfully pressed 
the two extended fingers of the Generals right hand, 
the lady meanwhile watching them both like a care- 
ful theatre-manager. As moreover the trees bent 
over on both sides, forming an exquisite frame, 
the picture seemed to me exceedingly charming 


44 


IN TWO MOODS. 


and poetic. As yet, I knew life only from books ; 
1 merely read and dreamt. Now something was 
taking place before my eyes. 

The further progress of the affair was rapid. 
Urmanov’s tact and respectful manner evidently 
pleased the General. Soon they could be seen 
constantly together, playing at chess on the balcony 
of the villa or walking in the park. The General 
livened up, talked loudly in the avenues, laughed 
with an old man’s abrupt laughter, and often 
clapped Urmanov on the shoulder. 

“You are the sort I like,” he would exclaim. 
“You ought to have been a soldier ! ” 

The lady used occasionally to frown and pout. 
Urmanov played his part as gravely as if it had 
not been all make-believe. 

The wedding took place in our church, in the 
presence of a few spectators. Several peasant 
women, some students in blouses and high boots, 
a few old fogies — acquaintances and cronies of the 
General — and a little group of groomsmen and 
witnesses, also a sprinkling of outsiders. We felt 
the kind of stillness peculiar to empty churches 
where every sound rings out distinctly, echoes in 
the corners, and clings somewhere high up among 
the arches. We could hear the whispering of the 


IN TWO MOODS. 


45 


old women and, occasionally, a sigh or a murmured 
remark. 

The bride was too gorgeously dressed for so 
quiet a wedding ^ her face was paler than usual, 
and rather too plainly expressed contemptuous im- 
patience. Urmanov, who was dressed in black, 
was unnecessarily grave. On the other hand, the 
General was in the best of humors. He looked 
triumphantly at his old cronies, raised his head 
high and struck his stick heavily on the stone floor, 
fussing about and giving directions to everybody. 

I stood leaning against the wall, careless and in- 
different. The whole affair seemed to me common- 
place and hardly worthy of notice. The priest 
went through the service gracefully, and with the 
customary unction. The deacon pursed his thick 
lips, rolling out a tremendous octave, with an air 
as if that were nothing to what he could do at a 
real grand wedding. The clerk scrambled through 
his part in a shuffling way. 

I was carelessly watching the smoke of the curl- 
ing incense, and my thoughts were wandering to 
other things : to the Volga, to the steamer that was 
passing somewhere between the hills, to the girl- 
cashier, when suddenly my ear caught a whispered 
conversation among a group of students. 


46 


IN TWO MOODS, 


“Indeed, I believe it is true.” 

“What?’' asked another voice. 

“Why, they say Urmanov is over head and ears 
in love with his bride ! Just look how white he 
is.” 

I woke up. What was this ? What was happen- 
ing ? What were they talking about ? 

The cloud of blue smoke, curling upward, 
streamed through a yellow ray of sunlight which 
shone in at the window. Through the smoke I 
could see the wedding wreath, trembling above 
Urmanov s head in the tired hand of the student 
who acted as groomsman. The priest joined the 
hands of bride and bridegroom, the echo of the 
deacon’s octave died away somewhere high up 
under the arches, and a chorus of children’s voices 
rang out in the choir. 

The general tapped with his stick, and as he 
glanced gleefully round looking very like a turkey- 
cock, I thought him disgusting. What was there 
for him to be so pleased about, so proud of ? He, 
who himself believed in the significance of the 
ceremony which had just been performed ; and 
why did he force these two people into acting a 
lie ? 

I left the church, and at the door 1 looked back. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


47 

The newly wedded pair were being led round the 
lectern. The American bit her lip, and her gray 
eyes had a look of obstinate determination. 
Urmanov, pale and grave, walked beside her, 
stepping carefully, and looking dubiously at the 
bride’s gorgeous dress, as if to tread upon it would 
be for him the most terrible of misfortunes. 


48 


IN TWO MOODS. 


IX. 

Ten days passed. The students came back from 
the vacation, and the throng of summer visitors 
began to diminish. The General fell ill and dis- 
continued his walks in the park. The newly 
married pair took a separate villa. The mock 
“honeymoon” was still going on, as the money 
was not forthcoming, and they began to fear some 
unexpected step on the part of the old man — that 
he had possibly an unpleasant surprise in store for 
them. 

At the same time Urmanov received visits from 
his fellow-students, and invited me, among others. 
The “young couple ” led a gay life, rowing, driving, 
walking, giving and receiving many visits, so as to 
remain alone as little as possible. A feeling of 
youthful shyness withheld me from accepting my 
comrade's invitation. 

One evening I came upon Urmanov and his wife 
in one of the sidepaths — quite unexpectedly. He 


IN TWO MOODS. 


49 

was sitting on a bench and she standing before him, 
as if asking him to walk on ; but he took no notice 
and remained motionless. His hat was tilted a 
little backwards, his head flung in the same direc- 
tion, his lips were parted, and his face wore an 
expression which did not belong to it and which 
was not pleasant to see. I had only once before 
seen him with that look — during a discussion at a 
students’ meeting. The man with whom he was 
arguing was unpleasant, but clever, and remarkably 
self-contained. Urmanov grew excited ; his per- 
sonal dislike to his opponent made itself evident 
both in his manner and his language. It 
chanced, however, that his antagonist was in the 
right, and he had no difficulty in refuting Urmanov’s 
arguments. On the other hand, it was plain that 
it pleased him to have roused the devil in Urmanov 
whom he still further irritated by jokes and sar- 
casms. It was as if there awoke in Urmanov 
some petty, evil, malicious imp which would other- 
wise have slumbered in the depths of his fiery yet 
lovable nature. His eyes glowed, his face was 
distorted, he lost his self-control, denied manifest 
truths, unceremoniously turned his back on his 
own principles, well knowing he was in the wrong, 

and that his friends knew it likewise ; all of which 

4 


IN TWO MOODS. 


50 

made him more frantic than ever. The audience 
who were usually carried away by his ardor and 
sincerity, turned against him and burst into peals of 
ironical laughter, whereupon Urmanov fell more 
and more completely under the dominion of his 
baser self, against which he could no longer 
struggle. 

For several days afterwards he was low-spirited 
and seemed ashamed of himself. 

Now his countenance wore the self-same expres- 
sion. As I drew near he left off speaking and 
looked me straight in the face with frankly malig- 
nant eyes. He watched me, as if he were count- 
ing my steps and waiting impatiently for me to go 
by ; there was something obstinately defiant and 
cynical as well in his attitude as his appearance. 

I felt very uncomfortable, and not wanting to 
disturb him, quickened my pace as I passed the 
bench. 

‘‘Mr. Gavrilov!” cried suddenly the American 
lady. 

I started in surprise, and stopped short. 

“Did I startle you? Forgive my speaking to 
you without being introduced ; but what does it 
matter ? We have known each other a long time. 

, . . Where are you going ? ” 


IN TWO MOODS. 


51 

“ Yes, certainly,” I stammered in confusion. “ I 
. . . was going- ... to fish.” 

“Really.? How nice! You have two lines, 
take me with you. Will you ? And he can wait 
here on the bench ” (pointing to her companion). 

“I . . . I . . . with pleasure.” 

“Come along, then. Where were you going? 
Not far? All right, come.” 

Her voice, at first undecided and seemingly con- 
fused, was now firm, even slightly mocking. I gave 
her a line and, flinging it across her shoulder, she 
walked on beside me. 

Not far off were two benches for fishers. Slightly 
lifting her skirt, she mounted lightly on to the 
plank, and threw her line with a bold toss. 

‘ ‘ Wait, ” I said apologetically. “You must have 
a bait.” 

“Why, of course I must 1 ” she answered laugh- 
ing. “I actually forgot the bait. Will you put it 
on, please?” 

I put on the bait clumsily, with a shaking hand, 
and threw my own line as well. As I felt very 
stupid I avoided looking my companion in the face, 
but neither did I watch my float properly. I could, 
however, see the end of her line reflected in the 
water, and the circles made by her float. The float 


IN TWO MOODS. 


52 

quivered, disappeared, appeared again, then sud- 
denly began to swim off towards the opposite bank. 

Will this stupid business soon be over, I 
thought. 

“Well, will it soon be over?"' said Urmanov’s 
voice from the waterside, in a tone of suppressed 
anger. 

“No, not yet,” she answered, without turning 
her head. “Pull in, pull in, you have a bite ! ” 

To my annoyance and surprise, I had really 
hooked a large fish. I grew nervous, bent down 
awkwardly, and nearly slipped from the bench. 
Something heavy dragged at the end of the line, 
flashed through the air in a silvery bow, and dropped 
into the water with a thud. It was a large tench. 
Waving its tail once more on the surface, it dis- 
appeared, leaving me standing with lifted rod and 
stupidly open mouth. 

“ Oh, what a pity ! ” she said, in a slightly drawl- 
ing tone, and in her natural manner. “Such a big 
one ! — There now, Pve got one ! ” 

She jerked the line skilfully and easily. A small 
carp described an arc through the air, and fell on 
the grass near Urmanov. 

“ Take it off! ” she said, with a quick, searching 
glance at her husband. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


53 

I, too, looked at him curiously. Would he take 
it off or roughly refuse ? 

“Shall you soon have done?” he asked, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

She raised her line, took off the carp, and threw 
it back into the water. 

“You are not polite,” she remarked, throwing 
the line again. 

It grew dark ; so much so that we could scarcely 
see our floats. Among the reflections of the trees 
on the opposite bank, a faint glimmer showed in 
in the blackening depths of the water. The moon 
was rising. Then came another gentle plash ; 
again her line whirled, and a second carp fell on 
the bank. 

“ Will you take it off? ” she asked again. 

I could no longer see Urmanov’s face. He made 
two steps forward, and stooping, looked down on 
the grass. 

“There then, IVe taken it off. Shall you soon 
have done?” 

“I think we have had enough.” 

“One can’t even see the floats,” said I, and I sup- 
pose there must have been a comically aggrieved 
tone in my voice, for she broke into a laugh. 

“Poor fellow! You are getting bored? Why 


/N TWO MOODS, 


54 

didn’t you say so before ? Come along ? Give me 
your arm.” 

“And the lines ? ” I asked. 

“Put them on the grass. How helpless you 
are I There, give me your arm. No, no, that way” 
(correcting my clumsy fashion of giving my arm). 
“ Now come ! ” 

We walked on by the lake, over which a faint 
mist was hanging. Its reflection in the water 
seemed fainter still. Looking at the water, I 
wondered how, a minute ago, we managed to see 
our floats. Now the water was quite black ; a bird 
hopped after us along the grassy bank, accompany- 
ing our steps with little interrogative chirps. 

Urmanov walked beside us, gloomy and taciturn. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


55 


X. 

was almost the first time in my life that I had 
walked arm-in-arm with a woman. At first, I felt 
uncomfortable, and could not keep in step ; but 
she helped me, and by the time we were half-way 
down the main avenue, I was more at my ease. 
Our steps resounded clearly under the overhanging 
branches. She leaned so close against me that I 
could feel the warmth and pressure of her hand, the 
touch of her shoulder, and hear her breath. We 
were silent, and I thought we were going too fast i 
I wished the avenue had been endless. I forgot 
everything that had happened — forgot even whose 
arm was in mine. I was overpowered by the sort 
of general impersonal enchantment of a woman’s 
presence, — the sense of an incipient love and a com- 
ing tragedy in which I could not foresee whether I 
should be an actor or spectator. There were mo- 
ments when it seemed as if another woman were 
walking with me — the girl from the Volga. Oh, if 


IN TWO MOODS. 


56 

for any cause whatever she needed a fictitious 
marriage, how joyfully would I stand with her 
before the altar I . . . 

In imagination I walked arm-in-arm with her, 
after a stormy scene on the lake shore. There I 
had given way and told her all I felt. But now I 
conquer myself, as befits a man and a future worker 
in the“ Great Cause.'’ I tell her that she will never 
hear such words from me again, — never see one 
offensive look. I will force my heart to be silent, 
though it should burst with grief. Then she lean- 
ing towards me, chastely and confidingly answers 
that she appreciates my generosity. Her voice 
quivers, and I guess suddenly her secret, and my 
heart is filled with rapture. 

At this juncture we stopped, and I ceased dream- 
ing. We had passed the Academy, gone some 
way down the road, and reached the villas. The 
little houses were lighted up ; through the evening 
stillness we heard voices, laughter, and here and 
there the sound of soft whisperings ; it all seemed 
to come from no one knew where, to fade away, 
and then be lost, awakening the evening into un- 
seen life. 

The American drew her hand from my arm. 

‘ ‘ Thank you, ! " she said. ‘ ‘ I took you by storm 


m TWO MOODS. 


57 

— you didn’t want to come. Now, I hope, we shall 
see more of you.” 

She spoke the last words rapidly, and turned to 
her husband. 

“ I think papa is gone to bed. You needn’t 
come in. I will stop here to-night ; he is not very 
well.” 

She went quickly in at the gate, then returned to 
us. 

“ You live at Vyselki, Mr. Gavrilov, don’t you? 
So you will be going in the same direction as 
Nikolai. Good-night 1 ” 

I did not live at Vyselki at all. Nevertheless, 
we both turned round and walked on together, as 
though in obedience to her command. 

I still felt the warmth of her touch on my right 
arm, and wished the walk had not ended soon. 
My day-dreams were broken and vanished. I 
was a mere boy agan, she was on the Volga, and 
as she had not the slightest need of a fictitious 
marriage, there was very little likelihood that she 
would ever know the greatness of my generosity, 
and the vastness of my capacity for self-sacrifice. 

I positively envied Urmanov, for whom all my 
dreams were reality ; and although I observed 
something gloomy in his walk and bearing (I 


IN TWO MOODS. 


58 

could not see his face), it seemed to me that at the 
bottom of his heart he must be very happy, — even 
satisfied. I knew that in his place I should have 
been unspeakably happy. 

The park was quite lonely. A couple, arm-in- 
arm, passed us and disappeared. By the lake the 
same bird greeted us once more with its hesitating 
chirp. I fancied twice that Urmanov groaned. 

When we reached the crescent-shaped mooring- 
place, he stopped abruptly and crossed to the other 
side of the fence. I stood still in doubt and per- 
plexity. We had remained thus for several seconds, 
when I heard his voice, hoarse, and quivering 
with rage. 

“Well? I should like to know why you can’t 
go ! Why the deuce do you tack yourself on to 
me? ” 

He said something more, but in a voice so thick 
with passion as to be inaudible. Raising his cane, 
he struck it with all his might. on the stone wall, 
then, flinging away the fragments, as if not satisfied 
even with that, he dashed his hat on the ground, 
tore off his shawl and flung it into the water. He 
then turned away bare-headed, with his hair dis- 
hevelled, and paced rapidly towards the ave- 
nue 


IN TWO MOODS. 


59 

I pulled the shawl out of the water, picked up 
the hat, arid followed him. 

Half-way across the landing-stage he slackened 
his pace ; then turned back and came towards me. 
He was silent ; and I thought he was probably 
speechless from agitation. I could hear his heavy, 
struggling, uneven breath. He put on his hat, 
threw the shawl over his arm, stood a moment in 
silence, and then suddenly caught hold of my 
hand. 

“Forgive me, my friend," he said hoarsely; 
“although — " He clasped my hand hard in a 
burst of excitement. Then dropping it, he leaned 
his head against an old willow which grew near 
the landing-stage. I ran down to the lake, filled 
my hat with water, and brought it to him. He 
drank a little and gasped for breath. 

“There. . . . thanks. . . . forgive me, old 
man. . . . friend ! Til do everything, everything ! 
. . . ril get her money for her, I will give her a 
passport. Don’t think. . . . anybody *. . . that 
Urmanov is a scoundrel. Oh ! but if you only 
knew what that woman is like ! ’’ 

Something like a spasm came in his throat ; but 
when I would have fetched him more water, he 
stopped me. 


6o 


IN TWO MOODS. 


“No, don't,” he said squeezing my hand tight. 
He seemed afraid that he should not be able to 
finish what he wanted to say. 

“You imagine that she is really interested in you ; 
that she really . . . wanted to know you? . . . 
Stuff and nonsense ! It just came into her head 
that minute. Just for a moment she found you 
useful ; so she took you and turned your head. . 

. . She, — I beg your pardon, — made a complete 
ass of you. And now she doesn’t need you any 
more. For a moment. ... I, too ... I know, 
I know, it is my own fault ! ” Here he broke off 
suddenly, dropped my hand, and walked away. 

I did not follow him ; I only watched his figure 
passing the landing-stage, and disappearing down 
the road, under the faint glimmer of the rising 


moon. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


6i 


XL 

However strange it may seem, all that had 
happened filled me with childish delight. This is 
just the right thing, I thought; love, real living 
love ; not out of a book ! Some day a similar 
storm will burst over me ; and I, too, shall suffer 
and I, too, shall have something to fight against — 
and to conquer ! ” 

The evening grew colder, — more beautiful. 

The sky was bright; yet the trees in the park 
and on the island stood out in darkly defined 
clumps. Their reflections were lost in the depths 
of the water, yet deeper still the stars shone and 
twinkled ; and a little white cloud floated like a 
dream in the purple gloom. Somebody’s boa 
moved over the smooth surface of the lake, now 
vanishing in the shadow of the shore, now creep- 
ing out into the open water and seeming to hang 
in an abyss of blue space. In the boat I could see 
two silhouettes. They were evidently enjoying 
this quiet evening, with the rising moon, with the 


62 


IN TIVO MOODS. 


trees in clusters dreaming above the lake, and the 
leaves falling from the boughs, fluttering silently 
through the air, then vanishing, and leaving be- 
hind faint circles on the water. 

A man’s voice began to sing softly a song evi- 
dently intended to her alone ; the singer not caring 
to scatter the tender sounds afar. (I do not remem- 
ber now what the song was ; and probably if I 
were to hear the same melody again it would not 
seem the same). It was the song of that particu- 
lar evening in my life, an evening which never 
returned. It was full of sorrow and love and a 
kind of joy in that sorrow and love quivering 
somewhere deep down in the unseen. 

I, too, was sad. I felt that I was in love with 
the fair American, though not with that American 
whom I had seen at the station and with the 
General, but with her who had walked in the 
avenue, arm-in-arm with me in the darkness, and 
who in my thoughts was so strangely blended with 
the girl on the Volga. At the same time I loved 
Urmanov, who had cursed her, and yet his curses 
made her still dearer to me. I was in love, too, 
with the girl on the Volga ; and with the evening ; 
and with the man who was singing on the lake ; 
and with the woman for whom he sang. 


IN TWO MOODS. 63 

When the moon rose quite high and lighted up 
the shore, I saw from the distance the fishing 
benches ; and my ear caught the chirruping of the 
same bird which had asked questions while I was 
walking with the American. 

I went home with a full heart. Titus, my room 
mate, was lying - on his bed, dressed and asleep. 
In his hand were some papers — the poor fellow 
was expecting a re-examination — and the lamp 
was burning on the table. He had evidently been 
waiting for me ; but I had no wish to waken him ; 
for I knew he would begin to talk and scare away 
my fancies ; and I did not want to lose a particle 
of them. I crossed the room softly, looked a 
moment at the face of my poor Titus, worn out 
with cramming, whom I loved now more than 
ever; and taking the lamp, went to my table. 
Opening the window and letting the rustle of the 
bushes and the dreamy howl of a dog somewhere 
at Vyselki mingle with the snoring of Titus, I sat 
down at the table, and, for some time gave my- 
self up to contemplating the impressions of the 
evening as they disposed themselves harmoniously 
in my mind. Then I began to write. 

I had a friend living in the little country town 
where I had been at school. He was too poor to 


64 


IN TWO MOODS, 


come to the capital : and too practical to start off 
at random. He had therefore for over a year, 
been fagging at lessons to scrape together the 
money he needed. That night, in my agitation, 
I, for some inscrutable reason, thought of him; 
and although we hardly ever corresponded, wrote 
him a long epistle. Afterwards, I had the oppor- 
tunity of reading this letter. In effect it was a 
hymn in praise of student-life ; opening out future 
vistas of young love, and lofty aspirations. All 
this I illustrated with fact, and with the vivid sen- 
sations which filled my heart. The result was a 
picture in which everything came out beautifully ; 
everything ! even Urmanov's suffering was tinged 
with happiness. It was very cruel to send this 
tempting picture to my poor anchorite friend. He 
told me afterwards that he wept with rage in his 
room in the dead-alive little town ; and was so 
rude to the headmaster that he nearly lost his sit- 
uation. 

• As I finished writing, a gust of wind blew in at 
the window and scattered the leaves of paper 
about the floor. By this time, it was nearly day- 
break ; the dawn was shimmering through the 
window. The dog had long since left off bark- 
ing ; but I fancied that the bird by the lake was 


IN TWO MOODS. 


<>5 

still repeating its questions. That, of course, was 
only fancy. 

Raising the lamp above my head, I cast its 
light on the haggard face of my poor Titus. The 
light and the chilly air woke him and he looked 
at me. ... I laughed ; and he laughed too, with- 
out knowing why. 

‘‘Is it late ? he asked, looking round. 

“It is morning. What do you think, Titushka, 
is it worth while living in the world ? ” 

“Quite worth while, Gavrik ; only this con- 
founded chemistry—” he added mournfully. 

We both burst out laughing. Then we un- 
dressed, put out the light, and went to bed, still 
laughing. We left the window wide open, al- 
though the gust flew in and kept humming round 
our ears. 


66 


IT TWO MOODS, 


XII. 

The autumn was late that year. Though all the 
leaves had fallen the earth was still warm. Even 
the latest of the summer visitors were gone, leav- 
ing warm days behind them. The park grew 
empty, bare and light. All its summer decorations 
lay like a russet carpet on the earth : and a warm, 
blue mist floated between the tree trunks, filled 
with the spicy scent of fallen leaves and damp 
earth. The dew dripped from the branches like 
quiet tears of farewell. 

The General had long disappeared from our 
horizon, with his green shade, angry looks, mum- 
bling speech and taciturn man-servant. Latterly 
he had seldom been seen in the avenues of the 
park ; and, when he did come out, moved feebly, 
his head shaking more than ever. His eyes stood 
out further and had a strange stony glare. But 
they expressed only helplessness ; bodily sick- 
ness and general weariness of life. When I saw 
that expression, I involuntarily looked away, 


IN TWO MOODS, 67 

feeling within me a sort of dismal pity for the 
man. 

Yes, I said to myself ; but why did he demand 
a false oath and the breaking of a free bond ? The 
fact is, however, that I felt the need of justifying 
to my own mind my former hatred of Ferapontyev. 

The lectures were in full swing. I still felt al- 
most a schoolboy’s delight in making the acquaint- 
ance of new professors and new subjects, and 
the beginning of a new term generally. The ar- 
ranging of my notes, the life in a circle of com- 
rades, the students’ meetings at which I felt myself 
a full-blown citizen in comparison with the crowd 
of freshmen — all this absorbed me and for a time 
obscured the recollection ofUrmanov and dimmed 
my interest in the tragedy of his life. 

Then the first snow fell, and in such quantities 
that the porters had to clear paths to the Academy. 
In the park it lay in a smooth, even sheet, cover- 
ing the clumps of trees, the stone staircase with its 
vases, the walks with their shrubs. Here and 
there the stalks of dead flowers stood out, and 
lumps of snow, like tufts of soft cotton-wool, cov- 
ered the heads of the frozen asters. For the rest, 
the foggy sky, after unexpectedly shaking down 
this mass of snow, continued to breathe warmth 


68 


IN TWO MOOTS. 


upon the earth, and soon the snow began to melt. 
Water dripped from the trees ; and all the air was 
full of that mysterious murmur which bespeaks 
the presence of warmth, soft weather, and tiny un- 
seen streams. 

That day, as I worked in the draughtsmen’s 
room, I saw from the window somebody who 
looked like Urmanov. He was walking in the 
avenue over the unbroken snow ; and his tragic 
figure formed a striking contrast with the virgin 
stillness of the park. Hastily flinging on my over- 
coat, I ran out after him, calling him by name. 
The figure walked on without giving heed. After 
going down the main avenue it turned and disap- 
peared among the tree-trunks. I stood still a 
moment, looking at the lonely foot-prints. The 
veil of snow was unsullied save here and there by 
the light marks of rooks’ feet, and a squirrel, run- 
ning from tree to tree, had left traces of its path. 
A few dead boughs, which had fallen beneath their 
burden of the snow, showed black on the white 
surface. 

My imagination was struck with some peculiar 
significance in the line of lonely footsteps across 
the virgin snow of the park. 

‘‘Urmanov ! ” I called again. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


69 

My voice rang out clear among the trees. 
Several rooks started from the boughs, shaking 
down lumps of snow. Then the faint echo of my 
cry came back to me from the lake which Urmanov 
was approaching. Though he must have heard me, 
he neither looked round nor altered his course. I 
saw in this inattention a sign of hostility, not to me 
personally, for I myself should not have recognised 
my own voice, but to any one whatever who called 
to him in the mournful solitude into which he 
had plunged. 

I felt sure that if it were Urmanov his face must 
again be wearing the gloomy and doggedly sinister 
expression which I had twice seen on it before. 
For that matter, I was not certain that I really had 
seen Urmanov. My fellow-students, when I told 
them of the incident, assured me that he had left 
Moscow a month previously. 

As for the American woman, she had got her 
money and returned to America. 

By the next morning the snow was half melted. 
Here and there the black earth peeped out, and in 
the morning a thick warm mist hung over the land- 
scape. During the day it partially cleared off ; and 
sharp, cold currents swept past, as though the frost 
were beginning to stretch out its icy fingers. The 


70 


IN TWO MOODS. 


air became a clearer medium for both light and 
sound. The black spots of thawed earth, the damp 
fences, the humid tree-trunks and bushes all stood 
out clear in the atmosphere, and seemed to have 
grown heavy and dark and sorrowful. 

The rattle and rush of the goods trains came 
from the distance so clearly and distinctly that one 
could almost distinguish every thud of the engine, 
every click of the wheels. When the train came 
out of the cutting it seemed quite close. It moved 
through the snowy fields like a long black serpent 
and something rumbled and steamed beneath it, as 
though the earth itself were boiling under the black 
band that moved along under the foggy sky from 
west to east. 

As we sat in our room after dark, Titus and I 
heard the rumble of one of these trains through the 
closed window. 

It is curious how long that engine whistles,” 
suddenly remarked Titus, raising his head from his 
notes. 

He went to the window and opened it. A great 
noise rushed into the room. Something was 
scraping, groaning and screaming, as if right un- 
derneath our window. Then the whistling and 
scraping stopped, and all was quiet. Leaning from 


IN TWO MOODS 


7 ^ 

our window in the darkness we saw lanterns mov- 
ing along the rails. 

“The train is gone off the rails,” said Titus in- 
differently. ‘ ‘ That happened once last year. Come 
along Gavrik, let's have tea.” 

But still I stood, looking out of the window at 
the dark field and the little lights gleaming like 
glow-worms in the night. After the sounds that 
had just filled the evening air there was something 
in the sudden silence weird and startling. The 
moist breeze shook our window-frame ; a brook, 
half released from its frosty fetters, gurgled under 
the snow, and the bushes swayed their dry twigs 
under our windows. 

Then the train moved on again, with a rumbling 
noise dying away in the distance. The night grew 
quite dark, impenetrable clouds covered the sky, 
and only one light remained on the spot where a 
moment ago there had been so much hurry and 
movement. 

I shut the window. 

Titus and I sat up long after midnight, carrying 
on a frank, delightful conversation. Then I put 
out the light and fell sound asleep, never thinking 
how long it would be before I should know such 
sweet, untroubled sleep again, nor that the last of 


IN TWO MOODS. 


72 

my childish dreams hovered round my pillow on 
that last night of my youth. 

Yes, if since then I have known joy, emotion, 
hope, they have certainly not been the same joys 
and hopes, and I have dreamt other dreams. 


JN TWO MOODS, 


73 


XIII. 

I WAS wakened next morning by a knock at my 
chamber door. Though the gray winter dawn 
looked in at the window and the flame of a candle 
shone through our ground glass door, it was still 
dark in our room. Soon the light disappeared, 
and the familiar tread of Markelych, the porter, 
sounded in the corridor. From the corner where 
Titus' bed stood I heard sleepy sighs and lazy 
movements. Titus was dressing. 

I surmised that he had heard some news. If 
anything happened during the evening or night 
Titus was always the first to know of it, thanks to 
Markelych, who was devoted to my friend on ac- 
count of his simplicity and his habits of order. 

“You might at least put your books away/' old 
Markelych used to say to me, pointing with his 
finger to my table. And he looked reproachfully 
at me from under his spectacles, which were tied 
around his bald head with a greasy string. “ Just 
look at Titus Ivanich, that's what you may call a 
real tidy gentleman.” 

With me, as with most of the other students, 


IN TWO MOODS. 


74 

Markelych usually put on a reproachful manner, 
and only spoke to order us about ; but he was 
really fond of Titus, and gave him all the latest 
news and gossip. On wakening early in the morn- 
ing I used greatly to enjoy listening to these simple- 
minded conversations. Titus had a delightfully 
naive way of putting himself on Markelych’s level, 
giving him in return original suggestions, some- 
times even improvised lectures on scientific sub- 
jects. It happened occasionally that I could not 
help laughter at them, whereupon Titus, bashful 
yet good-natured, would laugh too, and Markelych 
growl indignantly. 

‘‘I don’t know what there is to laugh at; Titus 
Ivanich is a bit cleverer than most people, and he 
always crosses himself when he goes up for exam- 
ination, and there you are giggling at nothing. If 
you ask some folks what they are laughing at they 
don’t know themselves — ugh ! . . 

And the old man would angrily pick up the 
clothes he was going to brush and leave the room, 
shuffling along with his old slippers, the thick hems 
of his trousers dragging on the floor. 

That morning there had evidently been another 
conference, and this put me into rather a nonsen- 
sical humor, all the more so as Titus looked very 


IN TWO MOODS. 


75 


dismal. I could not see his face, only his long, 
lanky body showing white in the darkness. He 
put on his boots, sighed, and stood still a moment ; 
then after another deep sigh he lighted a cigarette. 
As he puffed at it intermittently the little gleam in 
the dark room seemed to express confusion and 
agitation. 

“ Markelych seems to have brought bad news 
this morning, Titus Ivanich, ” said I, in joke. 

“ Ah, you heard ? " 

“ No I didn’t ; but I hear now. You are sighing 
as if it were examination morning. 

The only notice Titus took of my joke was to 
puff still more furiously at his cigarette, making 
the mouthpiece squeak again. Presently he took it 
from his lips and said bluntly — 

“ Last night some one threw himself under the 
train. ” 

Even this ill-omened news failed to put me in a 
less frivolous mood. 

“ My dear old Titushka,” I remarked in a tone of 
ironical sympathy, “ somebody dies in this world 
every day. You and I too, alas ! will some day 
succumb to the universal law. All men, all 
people ” 

It is very near, ” Titus answered gloomily. 


76 


IN TWO MOODS. 


“Then the whole point lies in the melancholy 
event occurring not far from Titus Ivanich. If it 
had been a hundred versts off ” 

“ He did it himself/' interrupted Titus, still more 
gloomily. 

“ Well, what of that ? In that case it was a vol- 
untary action." 

I, too, lighted a cigarette, and puffing smoke 
into the darkness began persecuting Titus with 
rationalistic questions. 

“ Now, just think, Titushka, is it not much 
more melancholy when a man dies who wishes to 
live ? If one feels one's-self useless, superfluous. 
The ancients had a tradition about Hyperboreans ; 
when their old people had thoroughly enjoyed 
life they used to walk into the water and die. 
To speak plainly, they drowned themselves. It 
was very sensible of them. When I grow old 
and begin to feel that I am useless, that I am, as 
one may say, taking more from life than I can 
give, I " 

“You are talking nonsense," interrupted Titus 
angrily. 

I burst out laughing. Titus, who worked very 
hard for his living, was exceedingly careful of his 


IN TWO MOODS. 


77 

health, and for some time past had been afraid of 
death. I rejoiced in the consciousness that my 
nerves were strong and that my ‘‘ way of thinking ’ 
placed me above foolish and superstitious terrors. 
I had slept well and felt fresh : I wanted to do 
something out of the common as an outlet for my 
superfluous energy. 

“Titushka," said I, throwing away the end of 
my cigarette, “do you know what? ” 

“ What now ? ” 

“ Let us go there and see ! 

Titus struck a match, and lighting the candle, 
eyed me askance. His face wore a scowling and 
sleepy expression, and he regarded me rather 
sternly, as he might have done a naughty child. 
Titus had rather a domineering way at times, after 
the fashion of Markelych. This time he said very 
gravely, 

“ You’re a clever fellow, Gavrik, and also a 
terrible fool.” 

I laughed again, and being by this time half 
dressed, began to wash, enjoying the fresh feeling 
of the cold water. Titus looked at me interroga- 
tively. 

“You are not really going ? ” he asked when I 
had finished. 


78 


TN TWO MOODS. 


Of course I’m going : and I hope you will go 
with me/’ 

“ Not for the world ! ” 

“You are silly, Titushka.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. I knew that gesture, 
it meant that Titus was not going to argue, seeing 
beforehand that it would be useless, but that his 
decision remained unshaken. 

I dressed and went out. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


79 


XIV. 

As I left the house and went into the cold air an 
invigorating sense of freshness came over me. The 
sun was not yet risen. It was that indefinite 
interval between night and dawn when light mingles 
with darkness and sleep withawakening, and I felt 
that I was not quite awake ; the vague floating 
images of sleep still kept passing through my mind, 
and everything around looked somehow different 
— new and strange. 

The sky was entirely covered with clouds, the 
Academy windows looked blindly out on to the 
square, and the bluish reflections of dawn were 
beginning to play on their convex panes. Lights 
were burning in the basement with a reddish, 
greasy look, like the light of the street lamps just 
before they are extinguished. By the church stood 
a policeman in his sheep-skin coat and huge 
goloshes, yawning and waiting for the relief-guard. 
A slumbering sledge driver passed ; he had proba- 
bly taken some students home after a frolic, and 


8o 


IN TWO MOODS, 


was now fast asleep on his seat while his horse 
trotted slowly along the familiar road. A dog ran 
out from somewhere, crossed the square as if look- 
ing for something, and then went towards Vyselki, 
meditatively hanging his head and curling his tail 
between his legs. The dog, at any rate, had be- 
gun the day, though as yet did not seem quite 
decided as to his plans. 

I, too, was in a meditative and indefinite mood. 
The chilly air penetrating my coat, reminded me of 
my warm bed I had just left. Having sat up late 
with Titus the night before I could well have done 
with some more sleep. 

However, I went yawning down the avenue that 
led to the station. This was rather from a kind of 
inertia than any conscious intention of accomplish- 
ing an aim. I thought no more whither I was 
going, than why I walked instead of flying, or 
grew warm with exercise, or let my fancy wander. 
Fragments of my life, dreams and some bits of old 
memories followed one after the other like formless 
clouds in the sky. I had never yet known real, 
gnawing grief, and slight melancholy is really a 
pleasant feeling. It forms a shadow in which the 
soul can grow, as flowers grow during a warm 
summer night. 


IN TWO MOODS. 8 1 

The bare branches rustled in the avenue. I re- 
called that avenue with summer foliage, and saw 
again Urmanov walking arm-in-arm with the Amer- 
ican. Then, no doubt, he was happy, and his 
heart as sunny as the avenue ; but now . . . she 
is gone away, the leaves are fallen, and he is 
wandering about thinking of her. 

“I must look him up to-day ; I know the lodg- 
ing where he used to live, I will tell him that I 
understand him, and earnestly sympathize with 
him. That will not seem offensive to him, I shall 
be able to say it in such a way that it will not be 
strange, for my words will simply express my sin- 
cere feelings which fill my heart He will under- 
stand, and press my hand and say that indeed it is 
hard for him. But of course he must reconcile 
himself to it as an inevitable sacrifice ; he knows 
that great results have never yet been attained with- 
out overcoming merely personal feelings, that now, 
emerging from this struggle free and strong, he can 
attack his great problem. Perhaps even ... I 
shall read him the poem I have dedicated to 
him . . 

I did not notice that I had walked the whole 
length of the avenue, and was unpleasantly startled 

when I saw the roof of the little shed at the station, 

6 


82 


IN TWO MOOD 


peeping out from behind the hillock at the end of 
the road. I was so happy ; Urmanov and I were 
both so happy ; and at the moment I really did not 
know which of us was the happier, I the consoler, 
or he who needed consolation. No ; he was the 
happier — of course — in any case I would gladly 
have exchanged places with him. I was still a 
lad. I could only look on at other people’s lives ; 
but he was living through the joys and sorrows and 
sacrifices of a man’s life. 

I had become so absorbed and was so happy in 
my dreams and the glowing words of sympathy 
which I meant to address to Urmanov, that I had 
it in my mind to turn back and go on dreaming all 
the way home. Why should I look at the thing 
lying there beyond the hillock? 

At that moment, however, I trod on something, 
and stooping down picked up an elegant little 
pocket-book. On the upper flap was a crest, and 
an embroidered inscription, ‘‘Souvenir.” When I 
opened it, a little sheet of paper fell out. 

By this time it was light, and mounting the hillock 
I read without difficulty the printed address on the 
outside. Then followed this : — 

N— Y— 

“ Twenty Fourth Street, 

“ Boston, 

“ U. S. A.” 


IN TWO MOODS, 83 

This roused me at once. I woke up with a 
start. Till then I had been lost in my dreams, 
but now they vanished in a moment and I began 
to have a dim foreboding of something very dif- 
ferent, though of what nature I could as yet form 
not the faintest idea. Then I opened the letter. 
The words I saw there sank into my soul, and 
time has not effaced them from my memory. 

“ Honored Fellow-Countryman, 

“I write for the last time, for you must know, 
positively, and once for all, that these are Ellen’s 
and my last words to you.” 

On this little dirty leaf of paper there enrolled 
before me the epilogue of Urmanov’s tragedy. It 
appeared that Urmanov had proposed to his rival 
that he should go to America. He would then 
renounce formally (so far as it could be done) his 
marital rights on condition that Ignatyev renounced 
his actual rights. This done they would engage in 
a free competition on equal terms for the lady’s 
love. The answer was cold and somewhat 
ironical. 

“No, my honored colleague, it won’t do! Of 
course all this is very romantic ; but I am not 
romantic. Moreover, the stakes are not quite equal. 


84 


IN TWO MOODS. 


You stake a fictitious right, I an actual right, that 
is to say, a reality. That the struggle for . . . 
love is a law of nature I acknowledge, as a general 
proposition ; but don’t you see, on your part, that 
to arrange our marriage affairs as you suggest 
would resemble more the habits of buffaloes on 
the prairie than of civilized human beings ? In 
one word, I consider our relations at an end. 
You knew the conditions on which you entered in- 
to the arrangement ; you knew what you were 
going in for" ; and if Ellen had her motives you 
probably had yours, which are no concern of ours. 
As for your new demands, they were no part of the 
agreement and are quite foreign to our calculations. 
Our accounts are made up, and the balance is even. 
All right. We are not bound to discount any 
fresh bills, — Yours faithfully, 

*‘JoHN Ignatyev.” 

S . — As a proof that my wife entirely agrees 
with my view of this matter, she writes to you 
separately.” 


IN TWO Moons. 


85 


XV 

I LOOKED around in amazement. What was it? 
Where was I ? 

It seemed to me that it had suddenly become 
day, cold and damp. The last larches of the ave- 
nue were waving their boughs in the"Wind before 
me. Was it really only a minute since I was walk- 
ing in that avenue full of visions of Urmanov, and 
my sympathy with him as a living and suffering 
man ? Had that been a dream ? Or was I dream- 
ing now ? 

I looked down on the railway-sleepers, and the 
damp stones, and shivered as from cold. Every- 
thing looked wet, dirty, and sombre. Here and 
there along the iron rails were white spots, and 
there was something in that awful whiteness, 
clinging to the cold iron, that set my teeth chatter- 
ing. 

Two men were sitting with their backs to me on 
the platform steps, wrapped in their sheep-skin 
cloaks to keep out the damp. One of them was 


86 


IN TWO MOODS, 


speaking, evenly and monotonously, the other lis- 
tening. In all probability they were talking of the 
most ordinary subjects ; but even now I often hear 
in dreams that even speech without audible words, 
and think of the damp morning and the splashed 
sleepers, and close by, in the shed, under a bit of 
wet matting, the thing that had once been called 
Urmanov. 

And is this really the end of Urmanov's history 
and of my dreams ? Impossible ! It is too sense- 
less to be true. And, to shake off the nightmare I 
ran hastily down on to the platform and lifted the 
cold, damp, frozen matting. . . . 

But the nightmare remained. Yes, evidently I 
had been too self-confident. My way of think- 
ing ” was no protection against this, the most horri- 
ble of all forms of death. 

The station people, in their simplicity, had gath- 
ered up the suicide’s brains and laid them mixed 
with sand and gravel, in the fragments of the shat- 
tered skull. 

I stood before this thing, lost and helpless as a 
bird under the baleful eyes of a snake. And I felt 
how its deadly look pierced into the very depths 
of my defenceless soul. 

The watchman laid his hand on my shoulder. I 


m TWO MOODS. 87 

knew the fellow well (he acted as guard), and I 
had often talked with him. But now he eyed me 
as if he did not know me, and his face wore an un- 
wonted look. 

“Don’t touch it, sir, it would be sinful,” he said 
sternly, taking the matting from my hand. Then, 
probably noticing my stupefied condition, he added 
in a gentler tone, as he recognized me, “ Don’t, sir, 
— it isn’t good for you to look at.” 

“ But why, why did you . . . ?” I asked, in a 
vacant sort of way. 

“What?” 

“Why — did you — pick it up?” 

“ Why, what else should we do ? For decency.” 

“It is our business,” added the other man 
severely. “God will judge him for it up there, but 
we have got to lay him in the earth — that is our 
part” 

I looked at the speaker with a helpless, foolish 
smile. 

“Lay him in the earth — Who? Then that — 
means — for then all is not over with Urmanov yet 
— there is still something to be done — some process 
to be gone through ; ” then I stopped a moment 
and broke into a laugh. 

The men glanced at each other in astonishment 


88 


IN TWO MOODS. 


“ He laughs ! " said the one who was a stranger to 
me. 

There ! There ! It has j ust knocked him over. 
He doesn't mean to laugh. I tell you what, sir ; 
you go home, and God speed you. He’s not fit for 
you to see.” 

‘^And — for — you?” I asked mechanically. 

“Well, we have to. That is another thing; we 
are working men,” added the strange peasant, look- 
ing away. “But you only get upset. Go, my 
lad, go away.” 

He gave my shoulders a push ; I went, and when, 
as I languidly mounted the hillock, I stopped short, 
he repeated : — 

“There, there, go along.” 

And I did go, but it seemed to me that I carried 
away with me something out of the shed. 

Certainly I had been mistaken in hoping that 
my strength and “ way of thinking” could arm me 
against that awful sight. 


IN Tiro MOODS; 


89 


XVL 

I REMEMBER oiice hearing how a servant-maid, 
while cleaning a third-story window, slipped and 
fell on to the pavement. By some strange chance, 
she was able to get up and walk into the house. 
When asked how she felt, the poor girl replied that 
there was nothing the matter with her. It turned 
out, however, that she was all shattered internally, 
and a few hours later she died. . . . 

I, too, when I stood in the shed, should have 
said that nothing particular had befallen me. 
Nevertheless, I also was shattered internally, al- 
though I felt no pain, no grief, no regret, . . . 
nothing ! 

There was only a strange calmness and an inde- 
scribable sense of isolation. I asked myself with a 
certain surprise : Had I really, really walked along 
that same avenue a few minutes previously ? Was 
it actually myself, not some other body ? 

Did it ever happen to you in childhood to fall 


IN TWO MOODS, 


90 

asleep in the day-time, while, though the sun was 
shining, storm clouds were gathering on the hor- 
izon ? You slept through the storm, and heard 
neither the pelting rain nor the thunderclaps, nor 
the crash of splintered window-shutters, and yet, 
when you awoke you knew that something extra- 
ordinary had befallen since you fell asleep. Every- 
thing seems new and strange — not as you left it — 
not like a continuation of the same day. ... Is it 
the same day ? Is it the same room ? Or have you 
slept a whole day and night through, to the next 
morning, and even been transported to a new place ? 
A cock crows outside ; and his shrill voice sounds 
as defiant as ever. A dog barks, and its bark only 
reminds you of the bark of a dog of your own ; one 
you had long, long ago. . . . And you can hear 
children’s voices ; but they, too, have a far-off 
sound, like faint memories of other and once familiar 
voices. And the little man who lay down in your 
bed ? . . . You don’t even know whether it was 
you yourself, or another who merely lives in your 
recollection. . . . 

A like experience had befallen me. During the 
few minutes that I stood in the shed with the corner 
of matting in my hand, a great gulf had opened 
between my present and my past life. It was as 


IN TWO MOODS. 


91 

though I had really gone to sleep, and while I slept 
a hurricane had swept over my soul. For my 
former sensations had left me and faded into dim 
and confused memories. . . . Urmanov, . . . the 
American lady, . . . love, ecstasy, ... his great 
mission, . . . whither is all that gone? When 
did it happen ? With whom ? . . . 

There is nothing; and perhaps there never was 
anything. . . . Otherwise, how could I be so 
wonderfully calm ? How is it that I neither pity 
nor accuse, nor feel angry with any one for Ur- 
manov’s death ? I am not even sorry. . . . 

No ; there is nothing of that. . . . there is 
only. . . . 

Again a slight inward shiver; and, through all 
my strange calm, I realize that I am not happy. 
It is as if there had dripped into me something 
gray, a spot of foggy mire, which I instinctively 
fear to disturb. I remember that with this fear was 
mingled a sense of squeamishness ; as if I wanted 
to get rid of something almost physically repulsive. 
It was the recollection of the white substance lying 
there. The shattered fragments of skull. 

Whither, I asked, myself, is gone all that which 
appeared to me as love, suffering, exalted aspira- 
tions and high thought ? 


92 


IN TWO MOODS. 


It all lies there in the shattered skull, together 
with the sand and the gravel. 

The gray, miry stain changes from a foggy spot 
into a cloud, hiding the light of life in my mind. 
As I thought of all these things the cloud continued 
to grow, and I shivered as with inward cold. . . . 

Between the larches at the end of the avenue, I 
could see the chipped and dirty stone pillars of the 
gate. Beyond these again were the walls of the 
students’ quarters, pitted with hideous gray spots 
where the stucco had peeled off. The wet roofs 
had begun to drip. The clouds were hanging low, 
— as if I had lost the sense of height — and the sky 
seemed as if it were covered with dirty rags. 

“What is wrong with you, Gavrik ? ” Titus asked 
me anxiously when I entered the room ; “ you are 
frightfully pale. Are you cold ? Have some tea.” 

He ran for boiling water, made tea, and, accord- 
ing to his habit, carefully covered the tea-pot with 
a napkin. I sat on the bed and watched his pro- 
ceedings indifferently as if they were no concern 
of mine. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


93 


XVIL 

Till now, I had been very fond of Titus. We had 
been school-fellows ; although he was much older 
than I. Poor Titus was rather ill provided with 
brains, learned everything with incredible effort, 
and regarded me with adoring admiration. I, in 
my heart, appreciated the energy with which he 
overcame difficulties, rendered almost unconquer- 
able by his stupidity, and highly valued his good- 
nature, his sincere affection for myself, and his 
sound common-sense — a quality which I com- 
pletely lacked. 

I was often deeply touched by the sight of his 
arduous toil. 

When preparing for examinations he would arm 
himself with notes a long time beforehand, sit down 
at the table, stop his ears, school-boy fashion, and 
begin to mumble over his book, repeating every 
sentence again and again. At these moments his 
face wore a mixed expression of suffering and stern 
resolve. When he thought that he had got a sen- 


94 


IN TWO MOODS. 


tence by heart, he would cover it with his hand, 
turn up his eyes, and repeat it, first with effort, 
afterwards more easily. Then a contented look 
would cross his weary face, only, however, to be 
replaced with the old careworn expression when he 
turned over a new page. 

He was not ashamed to cram thus in my presence. 
I knew him well, and knew how hard it was for 
him, and how sometimes he would despair and 
imagine that he should never get his diploma. I 
knew, too, how much he needed hisdiplorna — that 
all his future depended on it. In some far-away 
little western town his old mother was struggling 
on earning her living among strangers, and support- 
ing an invalid daughter by arduous effort. For his 
sake these two women practised a ferocious econ_ 
omy, putting all their trust in Titus, and looking 
forward to the completion of his course, for the 
fruition of their hopes and redemption from the 
dreary slavery of their lot. And Titus did his 
best. 

I knew all this, and therefore it never entered in- 
to my head to laugh at him when he sat rocking 
himself backwards and forwards with half-shut 
eyes and an agonized face ; or when, on going to 
bed, he put his book under his pillow according to 


IN TWO MOODS, 


95 


the schoolboy superstition that he should thereby 
get its contents into his head during the night. I 
understood that at this moment, Titus was not in 
the mood for discussions on rationalism. When he 
went up to the examination table and held out his 
hand for the ticket, I trembled for him more than 
for myself. And when he answered, as was his 
wont, word for word from the notes which he had 
learned by rote, I used to fear that the professor 
would notice the senseless monotony of his voice 
and his occasional strange mistakes. 

All this bound us together in a close friendship. 
I always did my best to keep Titus out of the com- 
plications into which I flung myself with enthusiasm 
and which might, in one way or another, have 
spoiled his career. Indeed, when he did occasion- 
ally appear at our meetings, in was only as a 
listener. He himself never uttered a word ; and 
only afterwards, when alone with me, would he 
venture to submit some idea of his own for discus- 
sion. In this there was much that was pathetic. 
Poor Titus would doubtless have liked to cultivate 
“ ideas," but he knew that for him this was a for- 
bidden luxury, that his business was to grind at his 
notes and get his degree. A certain shade of 
melancholy might therefore be observed in his 


96 Tiro MOODS. 

Platonic affection for ‘Mdeas,” which he called by 
the generic name of “ Philosophy,” esteeming them 
in his own particular fashion from afar, and through 
me, as people esteem the distinguished acquaint- 
ances of an intimate friend. Sometimes I would 
try to explain these ideas to him, eagerly and 
enthusiastically, as was my wont. In these talks 
and expositions he greatly delighted, listening 
attentively and earnestly, and never interrupting 
me, however late at night it might be. But when 
I left off and went comfortably to bed, Titus, with 
a sigh, would light the lamp on his table, put his 
fingers in his ears, and try to make up for lost time. 
And if I awoke, even after a long sleep, I could 
still hear his weary but persistent buzzing. 

Now while my anxious friend was busying him- 
self about me, I sat looking at him with a dim, 
unsteady gaze. My general feeling of isolation and 
estrangement included even him, who seemed to 
have strangely altered and to be no longer the old 
Titus. 

Did you ever, when looking at a man while your 
thoughts were elsewhere, lose consciousness of the 
distance between you and him ? The figure of the 
living man becomes like a blurred mark, the size 
and position of which you are unable to determine. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


97 

The optic image forms itself in your eyes divested 
of all the impressions which usually accompany it. 
The sensation is a curious one ; and it has some- 
times happened to me, especially in childhood, to 
detain it for several seconds. I was interested in 
this arbitrary conversion of living people into 
mental phantasmagoria. 

For several minutes my friend had been moving 
about before me in this way, but now I did not find 
it amusing. I tried to shake off the sensation. I 
failed. For there was something else which I saw 
at the same time whether I would or no — the image 
of the broken fragments and what lay in them — the 
image which had fallen into my mind on the plat- 
form. I instinctively felt that it was this that 
rendered Titus so different and divested him in my 
eyes of the quality for which I had previously 
esteemed him. His love for me, my tenderness for 
him, the recollection of his old mother, of the bitter- 
ness of her homeless life among strangers in a 
strange country, of her expectations and hopes — all 
this was gone, far away, where Urmanov’s trag- 
edy and my late exalted enthusiasms were 
gone. 

I was even half surprised when Titus suddenly 
offered me a glass of hot tea. I felt surprised that 
7 


^3 IN TWO MOODS, 

he could hold a glass, and that I could take it in 
my hand and find it hot and heavy. 

“ What on earth is the matter with you, Gavrik ? ” 
asked Titus regarding me anxiously. 

*‘What.'^ ” I asked, not knowing how to answer, 
averting my eyes. 

“You look so . . . strange.” 

“No, it is nothing.” 

I put the glass to my lips, but drink I could not. 
The tea scalded me ; to cool it appeared a difficult 
matter, and not worth the trouble. I set the glass 
on the table and lay down. In a few minutes 
I was asleep. 

I slept long and awoke just as I had gone to 
sleep, suddenly, without any of that twilight of 
awakening consciousness which, in youth, is 
sweeter than sleep itself. It appeared as if I sud- 
denly remembered something and opened my eyes 
at once. 

Titus was sitting at his table, with his side face 
towards me writing. The sense of strangeness 
touching his personality had now disappeared ; for 
though I had not resumed my normal condition, I 
was getting accustomed to my new mood. 

Titus was tall and spare, the muscles and sinew’s 
stood out sharply on his long neck. His head was 


IN TWO Moons. 


99 

bent to the left, and he nodded it regularly as he 
wrote, slightly swaying his long back, while his lips 
unconsciously formed the words that he wrote. All 
his muscles were tense, and he seemed to be writ- 
ing with his whole body. He was evidently 
copying out a lecture. Sometimes, on finishing a 
sentence, he would lay down his pen with a sigh 
and look round at me, on which I shut my eyes 
tight and waited impatiently till he returned to his 
work. 

Directly I heard his pen squeaking along the 
paper, I would begin to watch him again, in imag- 
ination tracing his muscular action back to his ana- 
tomical component parts. From the movement of 
the wrist I went on . . . muscular biceps, shoulder 
. . . reflex movements of the lips and neck . . . and 
all this guided by “a secretion of the brain," For 
some reason the process of secretion in this case is 
difficult. The thought which moves under Titus’ 
light hair creeps along very slowly ; it is therefore 
perhaps quite in vain that the old mother and the 
invalid sister look forward to help from their 
Titushka ; the engine is none of the best. 

Now Urmanov’s engine was better. The move- 
ments in the brain were stronger and moredefinite ; 
the boiler worked under high pressure. Herein, 


lOO 


IN TWO MOODS. 


of course, lay the danger ; there was no safety- 
valve ; the passions began to boil too hard and 
blew up the machinery. That is Urmanov’s whole 
history in a nutshell. The American went away. 
Urmanov died. How simple it all is, how very 
simple 1 

How lean and bony Titus is 1 Evidently the 
brain, which he forces to perform labor beyond its 
strength, sucks into itself the other parts of my 
poor Titus. The central machine is overworked, 
and the levers and cog-wheels are wearing 
out. 

And still under all these thoughts lay the thing 
that had fallen into me on the platform. I had only 
to look at it, and the whole picture would rise be- 
fore me — the boiler smashed, its contents spilt, and 
the cog-wheels and levers scattered about, an utter 
breakdown. That means that a man is dead. 

And this is life. . . . And this death. 

There is some physical law moving it. This is 
life ; you may surround it with as many decora- 
tions as you like. Stop the movement with a mere 
touch . . . death ! You can dress it up in gorgeous 
and funereal fictions. For my part, it seemed to 
me at that moment that I saw both sides of the 
medal ; both with the same meaning ; both lead- 


IN TWO MOODS. 


lOI 


ing to the same result. It is quite simple, clear, 
and . . . disgusting. 

Titus left off writing, looked at his watch, and 
carefully put up his notes. 

*‘What time is it?" I asked. 

Titus started and looked round. 

Ah I you are awake ! It is two o'clock • time 
for the fifth lecture. Will you come ? " 

^‘All right!" 

I got up languidly. I did not want either to go 
or to stay. 

‘‘What is going on there to-day ? ” I asked. 

“ Bratoshka lectures." 

“Ah !" 

“ What do you think, Gavrik ; will they hiss him 
or not?" 

I looked at Titus in surprise. His question re- 
minded me of something that seemed to have hap- 
pened long before the storm, or in a dream. Yes, 
of course, yesterday some one had got excited and 
said objectionable things to Professor Byelichka, 
and, if I remembered rightly, I also got excited 
yesterday about the same matter, and shouted like 
the others. But now I yawned carelessly. 

“How the deuce should I know? " 

Titus accounted for my indifference in his own 


102 


IN TWO MOOTS. 


own way. He looked mournfully at me and 
sighed. 

Are you all right again ? Are you well ? ” 

“What should be wrong with me.?’' 

“Well, I was quite frightened about you; you 
were awful to look at ; perfectly livid and your 
eyes quite strange. Ah Gavrik ! Gavrik ! you were 
too sure of your nerve. ” 

It occurred to me that in truth I was not quite 
well. I felt a kind of nausea in my soul, as though 
I wanted to get rid of something to throw off some- 
thing. For the first time I understood what it was 
that I wanted to throw off. It was the phantasm 
which had taken possession of me on the platform. 
But I no longer tried to get rid of it ; I had either 
got used to it, or felt instinctively that it was use- 
less to struggle. 

“Yes . . . poor Urmanov!” said Titus with 
another sigh. 

I looked at him with inexplicable annoyance. 

“For pity’s sake, Titus, don’t let us have any 
nonsense.” 

“ I . . . why, what did I say ? ” asked my friend 
with amazement. “It was Urmanov there . . . 
Why, don’t you know ? ” 

I looked at him again, trying the while to dis- 


IN TWO MOODS. 


103 

cern why his pity and his sighs should irritate me 
so. 

“Yes, very well; I know. Urmanov . . . But 
you see, there isn’t any Urmanov. Well. Is 
there ? ” 

“No — n — no ... Of course, now . . . when 
. . . like that . . . he stammered. 

“Well ; there you are ; like . . . That is to say, 
you are pitying a person who ... a thing which 
... do you understand me properly . . . doesn’t 
exist at all ...” 

Titus raised his eyebrows, looked at me timidly, 
as though trying to understand ; he then gently 
submitted a fresh argument : 

“But listen, Gavrik. All the same, you know 
. . . he . . . however that may be ... he used to 
exist. ” 

“Well?” 

“Well, then, that’s it. I am sorry for the man 
that was.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. Titus had never be- 
fore seemed so stupid and pitiable ; and I wanted 
to tell him so point-blank. 

‘ ‘ Look here, Titus ! Wasn’t it I who painted Ur- 
manov in such grand colors to you ? Just try and 
remember. ” 


104 


IN TWO MOODS, 


That’s just it : there you see ...” 

“ No, no ; wait a bit ! It is I who am talking to 
you now ; and you may take my word for it, . . . 
there isn’t anything there at all ; . . .do you un- 
derstand? There is nothing whatsoever ; and 
. . . there never was anything. Now let us go to 
lecture. ” 

I did not want to hear what Titus would say, or 
to talk any more myself. Did it ever happen to 
you to write verses or to prove a difficult syllogism 
in your sleep ? It all goes so beautifully, so clearly. 
You wake up and eagerly recall what you have 
thought out, in the hope that you have hit upon 
something grand only to discover that there is no 
rhythm in the verses and that the syllogism is a 
glaring absurdity. Something of this kind befell 
me at that moment. I thought myself extremely 
keen-witted ; everything I said sounded even cru- 
elly brilliant ; and only long afterwards did I un- 
derstand that the stupider of the two was myself 
and not Titus. 


i IN TWO MOOD\ 


105 


XVIII. 

A POLICEMAN in a sheepskin coat and huge go- 
loshes — the exact counterpart of the one who had 
been there in the morning — stood stolidly near the 
church ; a dog, the precise image of the cur I had 
seen at the same time, was running along the same 
road, only in the opposite direction. Everything 
— the square and the building and the sky, w^ere 
just the same as they had been early in the day. 
But everything appeared profoundly uninteresting 
and simply annoyed me unspeakably. All that I 
saw seemed to be there purposely to remind me 
that an entire day had not yet passed since the 
events of the morning. None the less, I knew in 
my own mind that a whole eternity had passed. 

‘ ‘ A letter for you, sir. " 

The Academy porter handed me a letter, which 
I stuffed into my pocket without opening. The 
handwriting seemed familiar to me ; it was no 
doubt an answer from the friend to whom I had 


lo6 IN TWO MOODS, 

written in my time of enthusiasm. What was it I 
had written ? . . . Ah ! yes ... 

^ ‘ How stupid ! ” I said aloud and angrily. 

The porter, who had been looking at me expect- 
antly, turned away grumbling, with an offended 
air. 

“Sh — sh — sh — sh ! ” hissed the sub-inspector, 
leaning over the top landing of the staircase. 

The fat little old man, with his comic shaven 
face, did not look happy. The calm voice of a 
professor could be heard from the lecture-room 
close by ; and from the other end of the corridor 
resounded a mingled hum of discordant voices. 
The sub-inspector strained anxiously his accus- 
tomed ear, listening to these sounds, in which an 
experienced man could catch a peculiar tone , for 
when a hundred young voices are raised a third 
above their ordinary pitch, the din resembles the 
angry buzzing of a disturbed hive. 

The old man came up to me and took my arm ; 
still straining his ears and looking anxiously to- 
wards the lecture-room. He had known my father, 
and as we were natives of the same province, he 
was rather partial to me. We often chatted to- 
gether; and he had told me expansively of his 
youthful days, and how he had once “been in 


m TWO MOODS. 


107 

trouble.” This ruined his career ; and now he was 
thankful for his present situation, which he had 
obtained with great difficulty. He valued the post 
highly, and I sometimes felt towards him as I felt 
towards Titus. The “ crust-of-bread '' question — 
for himself and his family — was a perpetual cause 
of anxiety for the old man. For this he would 
agitate and worry himself, even to the extent of 
equivocating and twisting his mind inside out, 
assuming an air of pedagogic severity, and trying 
to hide his inborn good-nature. “Ah ! ” he would 
say at times, sighing deeply, “it is difficult to get 
on with you students ; I tell you so, in confidence, 
truthfully ; ” and then we would both smile sym- 
pathetically. 

Just now he had an official and careworn ex- 
pression. 

“Look here, Mr. Gavrilov,” he said, “what's 
going on among you in there ? ” And as he spoke 
he listened again. 

“ Do you hear that noise ? ” 

I, too, listened ; and then answered : — 

“Yes, they are making a terrible row.” 

“What tricks are you up to ? Tell an old man 
honestly. ” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 


Io8 TWO MOODS. 

What is it to me ? However, I can tell you. . . 
Don’t be anxious. It is because something unplea- 
sant has happened to one of them, — to Urmanov.” 

“ Why, what on earth do you mean ? How un- 
pleasant ? They mean to hiss the Bohemian ; 
that is it, nothing more.” 

“Yes; it is true. Have you ever been to a 
slaughter-house ? Have you heard when the 
butcher kills an ox what a row the other beasts kick 
up? ” 

The old man edged away from me, drew his 
arm from mine and looked at me with astonished 
eyes, even putting out his lips with a startled ex- 
pression. 

At that moment the figure of Professor Byelich- 
ka appeared on the landing ; and as the old man 
hurried up to him, I burst out laughing and went 
into the lecture-hall. 

Several students surrounded me at once, pour- 
ing out confused questions ; some asking what I 
knew about Urmanov ; others speaking of the Bo- 
hemian. I stood looking at them all ; and I felt 
that I was smiling in a strange way. I had, some- 
how, completely lost the power of hearing the din 
with understanding, and the once familiar excite- 
ment seemed strange to me and incomprehensi- 


IN TWO MOODS. 


109 

ble. I only saw moving lips and gesticulating 
arms, and again laughed. 

To my delight, the door opened again and the 
Professor appeared on the threshold, the subin- 
spectors anxious face peeping in after him. 

The students went to their benches. The Pro- 
fessor, going to his place, stood leaning with two 
fingers on the table, and waiting composedly for 
the noise to cease. Then his rich, even voice 
began : — 

The last time, gentleman, we stopped at — ” 

At the first sounds of this fine, passionless, and 
rather oily barytone I felt a certain sense of relief. 
The Bohemian was a first-rate lecturer ; but it was 
all the same to me ; I was quite indifferent to the 
subject of the lecture. Lately, there had been 
dark rumors concerning Byelichka. People 
talked of certain reform projects of his, of a char- 
arcter so utterly obscurantist as to render them 
incapable of adoption, and proposed merely to 
prove the author's servile devotion to those in 
power. There were other vague rumors of like 
import. None of the students had any authentic 
information, for the Reports of the Council-meet- 
ings were kept secret, and the Professors knew 
how to hold their tongues. Hence, there were 


I lO 


IN TWO MOODS. 


only dim conjectures, quite sufficient, however, to 
rouse angry discussions ; some taking the Bohem- 
ian’s part ; others vehemently attacking him. 

To me, in my then mood, all this was utterly 
indifferent : but I could not help admiring the sang- 
froid with which the Bohemian began his lecture. 
Though he must have known of the incipient hos- 
tility of his audience, yet he began at the point 
where he had previously left off and lectured as 
calmly as if nothing had happened. Only on en- 
tering, he raised his long, thick eyelashes, and 
cast from under them a rapid and watchful 
glance. 

'‘. . . Thus the monad of the species previously 
described may be defined as a simple sac devoid 
of even the most elementary organs. Taking up 
its abode in the stomach of a higher animal, it 
becomes completely surrounded with a nutritive 
environment. ...” 

“ In this nutritive environment, gentlemen,” 
proceeded the Bohemian meditately and in a sin- 
gularly dulcet tone, raising his eyes to the ceiling 
as though seeking for better and still more dulcet 
words, “In this nutritive environment its exis- 
tence is in many respects highly satisfactory. For 
it receives from Nature the utmost possible good. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


III 


with the least possible expenditure of energy ; and 
is not this the aim of many aspirations ? ’’ 

Having made this slight excursion into the do- 
main of generalization the Bohemian again glanced 
at the students. A low murmur, expressive of 
awakening interest, ran through the lecture-room, 
slight digressions from a dry exposition having 
always the effect of enlivening an audience. 

TheBohemian's voice flowed on still more smooth- 
ly, like a stream of oil. Rolling out his rounded 
periods, he mounted gradually higher and higher 
till, towards the end of the lecture, he passed from 
individual facts to broad generalizations. I believe 
he really loved science ; he worked hard too, and 
was now himself carried away by his exposition. 
His eyes were fixed on the ceiling; the wording of 
his phrases became more and more flowing ; the 
peculiar, unctuous notes of his voice grew more pro- 
nounced. 

On the walls hung pictures, representing ana- 
tomical sections and cells, ‘‘leading a satisfactory 
existence.” Two skeletons stood, one on each side 
of the platform, with hanging arms, bent knees, 
and skulls drooping on one side, listening, as it 
were, with piteous attention, while the Professor 
knocked down one after another the barriers be- 


II2 


IN TWO MOODS, 


tween the traditional “ Kingdoms,” and placed a 
mere nutriment-absorbing cell in a recognized place 
among other “satisfactory existences.” 

The audience had long since been carried away. 
I looked back and saw rows of eager faces and di- 
lated eyes. Of the two contending influences — 
science on the one hand and indignation on the 
other — the former had obviously got the best of it ; 
and the Bohemian, as representing science, held for 
the moment, not alone the attention but the hearts 
of his hearers. 

But I felt myself equally a stranger to both these 
influences. While listening to the full, vibrating 
voice with its soft, rich tones, I had gone off into 
a dream. And in the only sounds which filled the 
lecture-hall, my fancy saw, floating and swimming, 
the contented cells described by the Professor, ele- 
mentary and blessed prototypes of universal life. 

Yes, it is quite true ; this is the formula of life, 
simple and clear. . . . But why is he so pleased 
with it? What is there in this to kindle either en- 
thusiasm or indignation ? . . . 

The lecture hour passed rapidly and impercepti- 
bly. Towards the end I was suddenly seized with 
a feeling of intolerable depression and boredom, as 
though I had penetrated into the most secret es- 


m TWO MOODS, 


”3 

sence of life and found therein only filthy and nau- 
seous dregs. I rose and went out. As I closed the 
door a round of applause rang out in the lecture- 
hall. I listened to it through the door with sur- 
prise and annoyance. The noise of clapping re- 
sounding along the corridor frightened the old sub- 
inspector, who came running with a troubled face. 
On learning what it was all about he drew a long 
breath of relief. 

‘‘That is all right! That is all right! Heaven 
be praised ! They have just clapped a little ; that 
is much better. . . They have not hissed.” 

I could not get rid of my feeling of amazement. 
Was it possible that only yesterday, I, too, should 
have clapped? Yes, I should, and I reflected with 
a glow of self-satisfaction, that I was now above 
such-like frivolities. In there they shift about be- 
tween enthusiasm and indignation, not knowing 
that to be impervious alike to enthusiasm and in- 
dignation is to understand Truth. 

At the door was a two-seated droshky, waiting 
for a return fare to Moscow. The miserable jades 
in the shafts stood, with their heads bent and their 
legs wide apart, as if meditating on their dismal 
fate. I went down the steps and got into the 
droshky. Then, suddenly remembering that I did 


II4 


IN TWO MOODS. 


not want to go to Moscow, I got out and walked 
as usual to a restaurant frequented by the students. 

The idea suggested in Byelichka’s lecture seemed 
to grow wider and wider. “Elementary pro- 
cesses ” — this is the final summing up of everything. 
And every one has his own fashion of carrying on 
these processes ; Byelichka acts one way, some one 
else another way, what does it matter ? 


JN TWO MOODS, 


II5 


XIX. 

At the entrance of the restaurant there stood 
behind the counter, as usual, a young German 
girl. She smiled a friendly smile, nodded her pretty 
almost childlike little head, and handed me my 
dinner-ticket. I bowed in return, and there must 
have been something peculiar in my expression, 
for the Fraulein becoming suddenly confused, 
dropped her eyes before mine, and all her face, 
even to the delicate, slightly protruding little ears, 
flushed scarlet. 

A maiden, I thought, with a sort of malevolent 
flippancy ; a specimen of restaurant virginity and 
German innocence. And, in reality, what is Ger- 
man innocence ? It is said that if Shakespeare’s 
Teutonic ancestors had not gorged themselves with 
beer and raw beef his types would not have been 
characterized by such ungovernable passionateness. 

I wonder what ingredients have developed in the 
German nation innocence so extremely delicate. 


ii6 


IN TWO MOODS. 


After this mental tirade, I went into the dining- 
room, where the girl’s father, Mr. Schmidt, an 
exceedingly fat German, with a head that narrowed 
at the top, and protruding ears like his daughter’s, 
was helping a student to soup with a majestically 
patronizing air, as if he were conferring on him a 
benefit for life. 

I knew Mr. Schmidt, and we exchanged civilities 
every day. A certain strange resemblance between 
this fat and hideous German and his pretty slim 
young daughter was a continual source of amuse- 
ment to me. To-day I marked this resemblance 
even in the smile which stretched his mouth from 
ear to ear ; and I instantly found an appropriate 
simile; “They are as like as an old toad and a 
brisk young tadpole.” 

“Now ve vill dine mitgoot abbedide,” observed 
Mr. Schmidt, glancing pompously round the room. 
He repeated this phrase every day, probably in 
the hope that the example of his appetite, and the 
sight of his bloated figure would give us a high 
idea of the quality of his fare. 

“Yegor, gif me place by Mr. Gavrilov.” 

Yegor laid a cover, served the soup, and uncorked 
a bottle of beer, whereupon the German set to 
work on his dinner with the air of a connoisseur 


IN TWO MOODS. 


1 17 

and master of his art. In a few minutes there 
was nothing left on his plate. Mr. Schmidt broke 
off a piece of bread, and after wiping his greasy 
lips with it put it into his mouth ; this done, he 
looked at me, winking with an air of cunning 
triumph, evidently expecting me to admire his wit 
and grace. 

“Vat is ze matter, Mr. Gavrilov?” he asked 
with sudden severity, “ you look at anoder man 
as he eats, and your soup will be quite colt. ” Then, 
in the manner of a teacher who tempers reprimand 
with a joke, he added condescendingly, “ One 
must oil ze machine, or it will not go, you 
know.” 

“Yes, Mr. Schmidt, just so ; one must oil the 
machine. Well, we will oil it.” 

All this time I had been watching Mr. Schmidt’s 
proceedings as if it were the first time that I had 
seen this function performed in real life. I now 
took several spoonsful of soup, inspecting the spoon 
every time in a hesitating manner, and thinking 
how very deftly Mr. Schmidt did the daily oiling 
of his machine. After swallowing with disgust a 
little of the half-cold liquid I helplessly put down 
my spoon. 

“Well?” asked Mr. Schmidt encouragingly, at 


1 1 8 IN TWO MOOTS. 

the same time regarding me with sympathetic 
curiosity. 

“I can’t,” I answered quietly, as I rose from 
the table. 

“Ay-a-a-ay! zat means you are ill. Mina! 
Mr. Gavrilov is ill ; fetch me quick von glass of 
my schnapps and a pinch of pepper ; ve vill repair 
ze machine. ...” 

But I had already made my escape from Mr. 
Schmidt, who apparently cherished the fell inten- 
tion of mending my “ machine ” as he would have 
mended his own. 

By this time the class had broken up, and I saw 
the students coming along, hurrying to dinner, 
laughing and discussing the lecture and the un- 
expected ovation. I turned into a side-street to 
avoid meeting them. 

Am I really ill ? Why, only yesterday I too, 
should have gone tearing along, delighted with 
everything — the ovation and the lecture, and the 
prospective oiling of the machine.” And now ? 
For that matter, the real reason is that my sight is 
grown so much keener that I have gained the 
power of seeing things in their true light. And if 
my nerves are a little upset, it merely shows that 
no man can digest the truth about himself, . . , 


IN TWO MOODS, 


II9 

There they are, quite cock-a-hoop, and for no 
other reason than that they cannot understand the 
meaning of the simplest phenomena. Schmidt, 
the fat machine, when he oils himself merely opens 
his mouth from ear to ear. That is it ; they are 
all merely so many Schmidts. . . . 

Having no wish to see Titus I did not go home ; 
turning instead into the park where I walked about 
the deserted paths till evening. 

The park was very lifeless ; the bare trees looked 
desolate, and here and there, from under the slushy, 
melting snow, rotting leaves peeped out. The 
sight of this dying Nature soothed and calmed 
me. Its dismal appearance harmonized with my 
mental condition ; but in this decay of the fallen 
leaves, in the mournfully drooping yellow grass, 
in the faint scent of rotteness hanging in the air, 
there was nothing that offended and jarred on my 
inner sensations. I w^alked till I was tired out, 
trying to forget myself, listening to the tears 
dripping from the trees, and the damp, fallen 
branches rustling on the ground, and watching 
the twilight unfolding everything, until night came 
and covered all the melancholy and corruption of 
dying or slumbering Nature. 

I went home late. Titus was asleep, but he 


120 


IN TIVO MOODS. 


had left the lamp alight for me. The burner had 
got out of order, and the gas was escaping with a 
continuous thin hissing, which Titus accompanied 
by a rythmic nasal wheeze, the result being a pe- 
culiar but not very harmonious duet in the other- 
wise silent room. Our large cupboard and book- 
shelf seemed to be listening with ironica^ attention 
to this absurd and useless wheezing. The whin- 
ing hiss of the gas irritated me far less than my 
friends hard breathing. The wheeze gradually 
passed into a snore; as always happened when he 
lay on his back. 

I could not sleep ; and so took up my notes. 
Perhaps this wise stuff will serve to send one to 
sleep, I thought. But I could not understand a 
single sentence. The words stood separately in 
my mind ; and, when my eyes passed on further, 
scattered and vanished. In a sudden fit of vexa- 
tion with my “idiotic head,” I tried to humiliate it 
by sitting down in the attitude which Titus always 
assumed when he was cramming. Like Titus, I 
stopped my ears and began whispering the words 
and sentences of my self-imposed task, mechani- 
cally repeating them, and rhythmically nodding 
my head. 

I must have unnecessarily raised my voice and 


IN TWO MOODS, 


I2I 


SO disturbed the sleeper; for after a while he 
moved suddenly, sat up in his bed, and stared at 
me with astonished eyes. 

“Ah! what is it?” he asked in a voice like a 
sleep-walker’s. 

“It is nothing; it is nothing,” I answered, 
ironically soothing him; “go to sleep, . . . 
machine. . .” 

Titus does as he is told. His face becomes 
passive again ; his mouth slightly opens, and the 
sounds recommence. I sit still on my chair, and 
a kind of terror creeps over me. The feeling of 
loneliness and isolation grows more and more in- 
tense. The gas hisses ; Titus snores, . . . but, 
after all, they are only two machines. ... If you 
lower the light the noise will cease ; if you roll 
Titus over on his side he will stop snoring. I 
think of his vacant look and the automatic way in 
which he obeyed my command and instantly 
went to sleep, and a sense of dread comes over 
me. 

A machine ? ... In my childhood, I was afraid 
of ghosts in the dark ; now, when in the darkness 
of this night I am surrounded by machines, when 
even my poor Titus is transformed for me into a 
complicated automaton, I feel again the same old 


122 


IN TWO MOODS. 


horror, only it is deeper and more fearful than the 
horror of my childhood. 

Though I had forgotten all about my notes I sat 
mechanically rocking my chair and waiting for 
something to come out of the silence and half 
shadows of the faintly lighted room. I had 
gradually slipped away from myself into that 
strange, desolate, inhospitable darkness peopled 
only by machines. 

There is nothing, nothing ! . . . The night, the 
cupboards, the dark corners and gray walls .... 
the black windows, and the wind moaning in the 
chimney. . . . The machine called a gaslight 
squeaks like a gnat buzzing against my ear, and so 
piteously withal that I felt ready to weep. The 
machine called Titus snores and wheezes through 
its nose so senselessly that I want to smash it in 
pieces. And the machine that I call “/" lies with- 
out movement, without thought, merely feeling 
that the something cold, slimy, horrible and dis- 
gusting which dripped into my soul in the mor- 
ning had become I myself, that whatever I felt 
in myself was it alone and that there was nothing 
else in me at all. . . . 

Cold, empty, dead. . . . 

Thus ended the first day of my new mood. The 


IN TWO MOODS, 


123 


next morning, I woke up more composed, yet still 
with the consciousness that this mood had taken 
up a larger space in my soul. 

The clouds continued to spread, and I remember 
the following days only as a mist without light and 
shadow, like an autumn twilight. 


124 


IN TWO MOODS, 


XX. 

** Won’t you come to the meeting to-day, Gav- 
rik ? ” asked Titus one day, without looking at me ; 
“ come along, do ! ” 

“What for?” 

“There now, do come ; you will see,” he said 
in a brighter tone ; and then added significantly : — 
“The quesiion is of the very highest interest.” 

He pronounced the word “ question” half-shyly, 
with his eyes turned away and in the conscientious 
tone affected by unaccustomed persons when speak- 
ing of “ high matters. ” At any other time I should 
have understood his pathetic impulse ; but now I 
only burst out laughing right in his face. 

“Ah ! How long have you been interested in 
‘ questions ’ ? ” and I laid an ironical emphasis on 
the last word. 

This saying affected Titus like the stroke of a 
whip. He raised his head and looked at me, and 
our eyes met. A whole dialogue may be compre- 
hended in a momentary interchange of glances. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


125 

Titus meekly asked me whether I really believed 
that he cared for me, and knew that I was treating 
him with a coldness and a cruelty which he had 
not deserved. 

It sometimes happens when you are looking at 
an object or a person on which your attention is 
concentrated, you realize that somebody is stand- 
ing behind you, looking at you, thinking, about 
you, perhaps smiling and holding out his hand to 
you ; yet you are unable to turn your eyes thither- 
ward ; and the other presence fades into the misty 
background of consciousness. 

It was thus with me. My attention was fixed 
on that gray spot which imparted its sinister hue to 
Nature and Life. Yet I could easily distinguish 
the manifestation of lower instincts, find meanness 
in noble actions and see in man an animal consist- 
ing of elementary physical processes. I was even 
rather proud of the keenness of my insight, and 
soon acquired the trick of indicating unpleasant 
characteristics by two or three words, an obscure 
hint or a subtle innuendo. In the result I gradually 
formed about myself a sort of solitude, and people 
— women especially — when they met my steady, 
analyzing look, would lower their eyes and hurry 
on. 


126 


IN TWO MOODS, 


I began to repel Titus in the same way. Again 
he cast on me an inquiring and imploring look, a 
look which reawakened within me a passing ten- 
derness, yet I merely shrugged my shoulders and 
answered his gaze with a half-contemptuous, half- 
cynical glance. 

Titus turned away gloomily, with a lowering 
face. 

“Look here, Gavrik,” he said angrily; “lately 
you have acted just like a mad dog.” 

“Just like a mad dog,” I thought ironically ; one 
might have found a better simile ; but Titus’s ideas 
are not freely secreted and mould themselves into 
wrong forms. 

It appeared, however, that this time I had struck 
home ; I was however no more sorry for Titus, 
than for Urmanov, or myself. I had hurt my 
friend deeply, but I simply watched him as an 
artilleryman watches the effect of a shot ; and car- 
ing as little for the sufferings of my victim as he 
would care for the sufferings of his victim. 

Meanwhile, Titus pulled his cap over his eyes, 
and put on his overcoat ; then, tossing my books 
about, took from among them a work on sociology 
which he had lately bought for me. Thrusting it 
under his arm, he went out without looking back. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


127 

He had the air of a man who surprises himself by 
resolving on a desperate undertaking. 

I afterwards heard that, on the same day, Titus, 
for the first time, made a speech at the meeting. 
He returned late with a flushed face and looking 
like a half-tipsy man, although he had not drunk a 
single drop of spirits. He came to my bedside and 
stood there for several minutes as if he wanted to 
say something, then turning hastily away he went 
to bed. In the night he moaned piteously and cried 
out several times in his sleep. 

As for myself, I felt neither grief nor pity, being 
as I said to myself, above all that,” because I 
knew what others did not know. Though I had 
then no desire to resume my normal condition, I 
cannot look back to that time without an involun- 
tary shudder. It was as if I walked, moved, and 
lived in a gray cloud, cold and formless, darkening 
the dawning light of my young life. 

I remember how a cloud on the horizon once 
suggested to me thoughts of this kind. It was a 
somewhat frosty evening, the sinking sun had tip- 
ped the edges of the cloud with purple and gold. 
All the central part of it was of that dim blue in 
which unknown shapes form and disappear, and 
you cannot tell whether they are really clouds or 


128 


IN TWO MOODS. 


only the creation of your own fancy. You know 
that at sunset, such-like clouds can be very beauti- 
ful ; that dusky blue and soft rays fading in a golden 
mist kindle within you a whole flood of sensations. 
Night is at hand ; soon, it will hide everything and 
you will not have found out what was really there 
and what were the shapes forming themselves in 
the tremulous mist above the horizon. The night 
will fall ; and the cloud, it may be, will spread 
over all the sky ; and lightning will flash through 
the still darkness ; and thunder will crash over the 
earth. Or else the cloud will float away, following 
the retreating daylight, and flash, instead, on some 
other body’s horizon ; and some other body’s eyes 
will look upon it ; and similar thoughts and dreams 
will arise in some other body’s mind. In a w^ord, 
there is in that cloud a something which reflects 
itself in every human mind : either as vague dreams, 
or sadness, or a throng of fancies dim as the mist. 
Hence, the cloud contains an element of the 
thoughts and feelings which start into life within 
you, like sparks from the contact of flint and steel. 

But when I looked at the cloud that evening, I 
felt that it was deceiving me, as all the world de- 
ceives. 

It is a lie, I thought ; a lie and an empty, glit- 


IN TWO MOODS. 


129 

tering illusion. Reality has none of that beauty, 
of that gold, of that ^‘Imperial purple.” These 
are loud and empty words ! Climb up to that tin- 
sel loveliness, enter into it, and you are sur- 
rounded only by cold, penetrating mist. It is the 
same with life : once you look at it from the inside, 
it, too, is nothing but senseless inhospitable sleet 
and fog ; having neither beauty nor sunshine, 
neither purple nor gold ; neither light nor dark- 
ness, and without form and void. There is noth- 
ing in the world save unnumbered isolated facts, 
and what seems exalted, bright, and grand is 
merely tinsel and lies. 


130 


IN TWO MOODS, 


XXI. 

In the evening when I was looking at the 
clouds, I went again along the familiar avenue. 
The bare and frozen boughs struck against one 
another with a dismal, dry, cracking sound, as on 
that memorable morning, and through the avenue 
there swept the dreary, prolonged howl of the 
wind, full of the same cold, pitiless misery which 
filled my heart. 

I had no definite aim. Then, and many times 
afterwards, I went to the station for no other pur- 
pose, so far as I could tell, than to watch with 
fascinated gaze the wheels of the first morning 
train. I had no idea of committing suicide ; yet 
I never could say positively that I should return ; 
and though I did return home that time and so 
many other times, it was not because I feared 
death or enjoyed life. Oh, no ! I took to the 
station and brought away a darkened soul and a 
heart paralyzed by dull despair. All around me 
lay the snow ; the furious winter storms dashed 


IN TWO MOODS. 


131 

by ; the telegraph posts moaned and creaked ; and 
from across the line the dismal little light of the 
watchman’s hut looked askance at me. There, 
crowded together in the close air, lived the watch- 
man’s family ; and the red lamp, looking out into 
the darkness, seemed as desolate and pitiable as 
the poor creatures upon whom it shone. The 
children were strumous and delicate, the mother 
weak, ill-tempered, and miserable ; her life con- 
sisted in bearing children and burying them. And 
the father, with whom I used often to talk, was 
perhaps the most miserable of all. He endured 
his wretchedness only because, in his simple heart, 
he believed that it was part of some divine pur- 
pose. My heart used to ache when he talked to 
me and I considered his sunless life ; yet in those 
days I was not without hope. I believed that we 
should soon find a way of making life bright and 
joyous for all. 

How, when, in what way } That was another 
matter ; but the significance of life lay in that belief. 
Now I had no belief, and life had lost its signifi- 
cance ; and the sight of the uncompensated misery 
of the watchman’s lot would have been utterly 
intolerable to me had I not been clothed in a pan- 
oply of utter indifference. 


132 


IN TWO MOODS. 


Nevertheless, the little light, glancing obliquely 
down on the snow, the road, and the steel rails, 
glimmered so sadly. . . . And nothing there to 
warm my frozen heart. 

On the station platform was a little shed — the 
same where ... A crust of ice, sprinkled over 
with frozen snow, covered the same bench. There 
I would sit, and while the wind whistled through the 
chinks, scattering sprays of snow obliquely against 
the boarded partition, recall that moment, rehearse 
those impressions once more, and resume that men- 
tal condition. The very air seemed saturated with 
an influence which penetrated my being, and 
brought back my old feelings. For hours together 
I would remain there alone with a spectre which, 
though I feared it no longer, seemed more terrible 
than all the spectres born of superstition. In them, 
at least, there is Some kind of life — perhaps fright- 
ful, perhaps inimical, but still life. My spectrerep- 
resented only the complete absence of life, the 
aimlessness, loneliness, and utter want of meaning 
of existence itself .... 

I lost the consciousness of time. . . . Minute 
after minute fled away ; the trains dashed past, 
rumbling through the darkness. In the carriages 
I could sometimes hear songs, music, talking. The 


IN TWO MOODS 


*33 


light from the windows fell in bars across the plat- 
form, shadows flitted past the windows, and in a 
moment nothing was left of them but memory. 
And yet I sat, absorbed, in my corner, waiting for 
I knew not what. . . . My feet grew numb and 
my fingers stiff ; the cold went through and through 
me, mingling with that inner cold which had frozen 
my soul. My teeth chattered. I trembled and 
shrank from head to foot, and to myself seemed as 
small, pitiable, and insignificant as any half-starved 
dog. And when I looked back on my former proud 
dreams and aspirations, I could hear in the dark- 
ness my own laughter, sounding so strange and 
dismal that a sense of horror crept over me : it 
was as though I were being mocked by some lost 
soul or invisible fiend. 

Then I would think of my warm room and tea, 
and get up to crawl home, dimly aware that some 
day the longing for another resting-place might 
drag me down there under the wheels. I weighed 
both possibilities objectively, as if the matter con- 
cerned some one else ; the two ideas contending 
in my mind while my will remained passive. 

And if, nevertheless, I let train after train pass 
and went home (Titus, whom I had forbidden to 
follow me, meeting me with a gloomy and furtive 


IN TWO MOODS. 


yet relieved glance), it was simply because death 
appeared to me just as disgusting as life. 

Yes, you may deem it a paradox, but to me this 
seems a universal truth : only those whose lives 
have been full and normal can face death calmly. 
He who has known intelligent joy has something 
to be thankful for. The man who has struggled 
and suffered sees in death a deliverer, a friend reliev- 
ing him from the grievous burden of duty ; but he 
who has never in life experienced either intelligent 
joy or intelligent grief fears the mere mention of 
death, because there remains in his soul a void — 
something empty and unsatisfied. Death comes 
before life has given him what he thought he had 
a right to reckon upon ; a man of this type is bitter 
against both life and death. But still more so when, 
as happened to me at that time, a man becomes 
sick of life without struggle, or pain, or joy ; then 
death also appears sickening and hideous. For 
life and death are bound together by a living thread. 

I do not remember who it was that said, “ Death 
is the child of life.” It is true in this sense: as 
healthy children are born of healthy parents, so a 
life that has been healthy in the full significance of 
the word is followed by a death as bright as the 
sunset of a clear day. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


135 


XXII. 

One evening as I sat in the shed, in the state of 
mind which I have just described, the passenger 
train from Moscow began to slacken speed as it 
neared the station. Again the bars of light flashed 
across the platform and shadows moved in the dim 
windows , and I could hear sounds and talking from 
the shut-in life of the carriages. And once more it 
seemed like the mere echo of long past impressions. 
When, however, the train went on again, I found 
that this echo had left upon the platform a living 
being. 

The red lantern at the end of the last carriage 
flung a ray of light on the solitary passenger, from 
whom I instantly retreated to the furthest corner 
of the shed. It was the girl-cashier from the Volga, 
who, as the navigation was stopped, had made up 
her accounts and returned to us for the winter. 

She apparently expected that somebody would 
meet her, and found herself mistaken. Perhaps, 


IN TWO MOODS. 


136 

though, she was playing one of her audacious 
pranks, and trusted to chance for an escort. Be 
that as it might, there she stood, alone in the dark, 
looking round her. The train glittered in the dis- 
tance like a red star ; the place was quite deserted ; 
and I sat still in the shed, trying not to stir. 

The girl laid her hand-bag on the platform, and 
crossed the line to the watchman’s hut on the op- 
posite bank. For a moment I lost sight of her, 
but the next moment her slender figure reappeared 
at the open door. 

“Grigoryevna ! Good-evening ! ” she called to 
the watchman’s wife. 

‘^Eh ! Who is there?” 

“I, I. Why, she doesn’t know me ! ” 

Grigoryevna answered in the languid voice of a 
suffering woman. The door closed; but a mo- 
ment afterwards both the women came out again. 

Dear ! dear ! What a pity ! He is just gone 
down thedine. You had better wait a bit for him ; 
he will go with you.” 

No ; it is all right ; I’ll go alone. Good-bye ! ” 
And the girl went rapidly down the bank. 

“No, but really ... it is not safe ; indeed, it is 
not safe. Heaven forbid ! somebody might harm 
you. ” 


IN TWO MOODS. 


137 

“ No, they won't. Fm lucky ; no one ever harms 
me.” 

These familiar words, accompanied by the old 
familiar laugh, sounded as if they had been spoken 
in my ear. Then she crossed the platform, and I 
withdrew further into my corner. 

Why, I cannot tell. It seemed to me that the in- 
definite, half-conscious expectations whic^ I had 
previously formed in the same place, referred to 
the event which was now coming to pass. I even 
fancied that, earlier in the day, I had felt a fore- 
boding of her coming, and taken my “resolution” 
beforehand. 

Be that as it might, there rose before me the 
living image of that past so near, yet already so 
far off. 

Now I analyzed everything and mocked at 
everything. But, until this moment I had not 
dared to touch with my hideous analysis this girl 
whom I had once loved, and whose memory I 
still cherished, pure and unsullied. It lay dormant 
in the deepest recesses of my soul, together with 
some other memories that were also very dear to 
me. But I knew that they would be called up to 
judgment by my new mood, and if I once began 
to submit these memories and feelings to analysis, 


138 IN TWO MOODS. 

1 should never stop, and there would not be left in 
my soul one single untainted spot. 

It is very likely that I was trembling in my corner 
from a foreboding of all this. It is possible, too, 
that I did not like to let her, so strong and full of 
life, see me shivering, shrinking, with the inner 
consciousness of a wretched little dog. Anyhow, 
I waited till she had started, and then followed her. 

She walked quickly, and her figure now showed 
like a dim shadow in front, now disappearing alto- 
gether. I followed her, dreading to lose sight of 
her, yet, at the same time, fearing to attract her at- 
tention. And then, for the first time, the oddity of 
my position occurred to me : why had I not gone 
straight up to her? Why hide myself, and then 
creep after her like a thief in the dark ? 

For the first time I felt causeless shame. Why ? 
I had done nothing wrong, — nothing with which 
to reproach myself. It is the shame of existing at 
all, flashed through my mind. It was the dread of 
showing her the dirty, gray spot in my soul. 

This thought angered me. At the same time, as 
I could no longer see her, I feared I might lose her, 
and forgetting both the cold and my own shivering 
fit hurried on peering into the darkness. 

Suddenly I quivered as if I had been shot, and 


IN TWO MOODS. 


139 

stood still, hearing at the same moment a low, 
startled cry. The girl, as it appeared, was tired^ 
and, placing her portmanteau on the ground, sat 
down on it to rest herself. I thus found myself 
face to face with her. 

For a few seconds we remained standing — she 
in surprised silence. . . Then I held out my hand 
and said : — 

“Good-evening, . . . Tonia.” 

“Ah! it is you I There, I knew you would 
come. Why, Gavrik dear, how you startled me 1 ” 
and, taking my hand in both hers, she pressed it 
warmly, laughing and talking merrily of her fright. 

Why didn’t I see you on the platform } Did you 
get my letter? Why, wherever did you come 
from ? ” 

She showered questions upon me, and went 
straight on, without waiting for an answer. She 
had such a lot to tell me ; she had seen so much. 
And what was going on in Moscow, — in the 
Academy ? She asked after our acquaintances. But, 
first of all, how were the Sokolovs ? 

The Sokolovs were a couple united in civil mar- 
riage. He was a good-natured student, no longer 
young ; she, an almost uneducated woman, also 
past her youth, with a freckled face and thin, close- 


140 


JN TWO MOODS. 


cropped hair that suited her face very badly. Tonia 
(as the girl-cashier was still so called in our circle) 
was a great friend of theirs, and usually lodged 
with them. 

I grew confused at her question, and was hesita- 
ting what to answer, when she stopped short and 
tried to look at me closely in the darkness. 

“ Do you know, there’s something strange about 
you? ...” she said half-interrogatively. 

I smiled, and felt glad that she could not see how 
unnatural was my smile. 

“Strange, quite strange,” she repeated. “You 
turn up from one doesn’t know where, . . . you 
don’t speak, . . . you don’t answer one’s ques- 
tions.” 

“Well, but you don’t give me time to answer.” 

“No, no ! Somehow— it isn’t that,” said the girl 
sadly, and then brightened up again. “Oh, well. 
I’ll find out all about that to-morrow. I shall stay 
here a fortnight.” 

“And then?” 

“Then? Perhaps. . . . Why, you know, I wrote 
to you. ...” 

She glanced at me again and walked faster. 

“ No, we’ll talk about that to-morrow.” 

Why ? Because I am strange ? ” I asked in- 


IN TWO MOODS. 


14 1 

voluntarily smiling again, but this time with deeply 
felt bitterness. 

“Y . . . yes.’^ 

"‘Well, perhaps that’s better, after all.” 

“There you see!” said the girl mournfully. 
“Do tell me what is the matter?” 

“ It’s all the same. We won’t talk about that. 
But I am very glad to be walking with you now.” 
“What did you say? ” 

“ I say that I am very glad. ... I really mean 

it. . . 

“ Is — is there any need to say that ? ” 

She relapsed into an embarrassed silence, and 
walked-on for sometime thinking. I, too, was si- 
lent and oppressed with gloomy forebodings. I 
had fancied, at first that just this once, in the dark- 
ness, I might, for a passing moment, enjoy at least 
the illusion of a happy meeting, although on the 
morrow my new mood might again assert the 
mastery. But .1 felt that even the darkness could 
not for long hide my secret. She could not see my 
unnatural smile ; and yet she kneW’ intuitively that 
there was something strange about me. And, in- 
deed, should we have met like this, should I have 
spoken as I did, if nothing had befallen me ? 

“ All right; we needn’t talk at all,” I said again, 


142 


IN TWO MOODS. 


although well aware that I had done better not to 
say it. 

After passing the Academy and crossing the 
bridge, we arrived at a small villa, standing alone 
in a clump of young pine-trees. A stove was 
alight, and a lamp burning in the front room ; and 
through the window, we could see three figures. 

“Now, good-bye,’' said I, stopping and handing 
her the portmanteau. 

“Why ? Aren’t you coming in ? 

“ No ; you had better go alone.” 

“Is anything . . . wrong between you and the 
Sokolovs ? ” 

“ Nothing particular.” 

“But you know they are dear, good people.” 

“ I don’t dispute that.” 

She stopped, made as if she would say something, 
but changing her mind, took the portmanteau from 
me, and held out her hand in silence. 

I held it for a moment, and fancied that it trem- 
bled slightly, as though ready to respond warmly 
and strongly to the pressure of mine. But the mo- 
ment passed ; her hand slipped away from mine ; 
and she said softly : — 

“ Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, Antonina Dimitrievna.” 


IN TWO MOODS. 


143 

A moment later, I saw through the window how 
warmly she was welcomed by her friends. Sokolov, 
a dark, stooping, broad-shouldered man, swung 
himself out of his chair and embraced her. His 
wife ran in from the next room, and, tossing back 
her thin hair, flung herself on the girl's neck. 
Syergakov, a young student of the group to which 
I had formerly belonged, at first hesitatingly shook 
hands with her ; then his face brightened into a 
smile, and he too kissed the new- comer. 

I went up to the hedge without the slightest 
hesitation, fully determined to hide there and watch 
what happened next. I knew that I should prob- 
ably be the subject of their conversation ; and I 
w'as not mistaken. 

For some time past I had observed that the peo- 
ple I met eyed me with peculiar attention, yet 
furtively, I knew that many considered me 

cracked '' ; and this irritated me. At times, there- 
fore, I would purposely say brusque and disagree- 
able things, carefully cultivating the art of finding 
out the weak points of these “sensible " folk. I 
had not been at the Sokolovs for a long 
time. 

After the first greetings, Tonia, as she took off 
her cloak, ask^d a question which, as I could see 


144 


IN TWO MOODS. 


from her contracted brows and the expression of 
her face, referred to me. 

Sokolov turned away and began gloomily poking 
the fire. He was one of those very good-natured 
men who always find it difficult to speak ill of any 
one, or to tell unpleasant news. Syergakov sat 
down at the table and took up a pencil. 

Tonia doffed her gray cloak and, flinging it on a 
chest, turned round, so that I could see her agitated 
face, and I inferred from her manner that she was 
repeating her question and telling them of her 
meeting with me. Then Madame Sokolov, sitting 
down on the chest, began to relate something. 
And her face gradually assumed an excited and 
indignant expression. I knew what she was say- 
ing. She was complaining that for some time past 
I had behaved very queerly, keeping aloof from 
my comrades and when I met her looking at her in 
the strangest way possible ; moreover, when she 
remonstrated with me, I had answered sneeringly 
that I hoped she did not suspect me of any Don 
Juan-like intentions. 

Sokolov rose impatiently and made an observa- 
tion, whereupon his wife broke off and looked at 
Tonia conscience-stricken. The girl’s face was 
pale and sad. For some time nothing more was 


IN TWO MOODS. 


145 

said ; then Tonia turned her face away from them 
and stood looking at the fire. I could see her pro- 
file, her dark dress and the tress of fair hair hanging 
over her shoulder. 

My eyes were glued to the window ; it was as if 
I were looking at people who mourned for me, for 
the “ me” which had been and was not. A sense 
of overwhelming misery swept over my soul as if I 
were assisting at the burial of something unspeak- 
bly dear to me, — my own youth, and with 
it . . . 

Strange ! From that time I have understood the 
legends of demons entering into men s bodies and 
speaking through their mouths. 

At that very moment when I suffered this un- 
bearable misery, and felt so much tenderness to- 
wards this girl who felt so much for me, the dirty 
spot in my soul asserted its influence ; and for the 
first time my sneering analysis touched the girl’s 
image and my love for her. 

A tress of fair hair, said some one within me, so 
distinctly that I started as if I had actually heard 
an internal whisper. The whole matter lies in the 
fair tress. Never since I began to grow up have I 
been able to look unmoved at a fair tress hanging 
down a girl’s back. A fair tress on a dark brown 
10 


146 • MOODS. 

dress suggests thoughts which still cause me acute 
distress. 

At that moment, I heard footsteps and the sound 
of voices, one of which I recognized as that of 
Chernov, a comrade of mine both in the classes and 
the group. He belonged to a family of rich land- 
owners, and it was known that he had once been 
in the habit of striking his female serfs in the face 
with his boots when they brought them to him 
badly cleaned. Moreover his harsh unsympathetic 
voice showed that his character was hard, and he 
possessed few attractive qualities. Many who 
knew him doubted the sincerity of his present liberal 
opinions; but Tonia believed in him : and Chernov 
repaid her with a seeming affection bordering on 
devotion. 

The students were walking rapidly and must 
have seen me ; but this did not embarrass me in 
the 'least. I ;quietly left the window and walked 
towards them, thinking that Chernov did not know 
of Tonia’s arrival, but as he was going to the 
Sokolovs he would soon see her. And embrace her 
. . . fraternally. 

When I came up to them, the students looked 
round in amazement. 

‘Ht is all right, it is all right! ” I said roughly, 


IN TWO MOODS, 


147 

“don’t be confused, good folk ! Make haste ; 
Tonichka is come back.” 

Chernov uttered a cry of joy ; and I impulsively, 
and to my own surprise, added bluntly : — 

“And how her hair has grown ! . . . splendid!” 
Then I burst out laughing. I can imagine how 
utterly wild this speech must have seemed to 
them. And yet, for me, it was the logical contin- 
uation of my thoughts. I must have seemed to 
my fellow-students completely insane, and I often 
think, now, that even in the thoughts of regular 
maniacs, who talk all kinds of nonsense, there is 
far more sequence than we usually suppose. 

The students hurried to the villa and I struck off 
into the wood, walking straight on without choos- 
ing my way. I wanted to tire myself out. I 
needed exhaustion, oblivion, and darkness. 


148 


IN TWO MOODS, 


XXIII. 

I WAS anxious to reach home quickly ; only to 
get in, to fling myself down on my bed, to go to 
sleep at once without thinking about myself or her, 
to have a lucid interval before the torture recom- 
menced. . . . 

In my boyhood, when I still retained my child- 
ish beliefs and said my prayers, I once awoke on 
just such a dark night, with a feeling of unac- 
countable dread. To drive away my fear I thought 
of saying a prayer, but a word which had no 
business there crept into the middle of it. I be- 
gan again from the first word, only, however, to 
break down a second time in the same place. 
This happened several times in succession. At 
first, the interpolation was mere nonsense, but 
after a while I observed with terror that instead of 
meaningless phrases naive and childish blasphe- 
mies crept into my mind ; and the more passion- 
ately I began the prayer the more I was beset in 
the middle of it by sinful words and thoughts. 
Cold sweat broke out on my forehead and I be- 


IN TWO MOODS. 


149 


came postively convinced that a demon was tak- 
ing advantage of the darkness to whisper bad 
thoughts in my ear. 

Now, I had neither childish superstition ; nor 
was I tempted \)y imaginary demons in the dark, 
pathless grove. I fled from a soulless spectre 
which I bore within myself, feeling that it would 
devour the one thing which still remained in my 
heart uncontaminated and untouched ; that in a few 
minutes more, I myself should destroy the last 
pure image which was left to me. 

I walked on fast, my heart palpitating, and at 
moments contracting in sudden fear as if grasped 
by an invisible hand. The sombre tree trunks, 
black pillars in a waste of snow, separated and 
drew back as I passed ; yet still a wall loomed 
large before me, and it seemed as if the park 
would never end. 

All this time I had been walking at random ; but 
by a lucky chance I came out directly opposite 
the Academy. Titus had just returned, and was 
lighting the lamp. His cap was pushed on to the 
back of his head and his face flushed and excited. 
When ‘he had finished with the lamp he turned 
round to me and gave an account of his theoreti- 
cal conversations. 

He no longer watched me and greeted me with 


IN TWO MOODS, 


150 

anxious looks ; and he failed to observe that I was 
in no condition to listen to his narration. He came 
up and barred my way ; and his long figure with 
its gesticulating arms stood before me like an ab- 
surd and clumsy silhouette, the shadow of his cap 
thrown across the ceiling. 

^‘Just imagine, ” he said, gesticulating excitedly, 
“ Rouchin said to me. . . . No, I said to him : — 
“No, no ; you are all wrong, — you look here ! . . 
I’ll just prove to you. . . ” 

A revolution had taken place in poor Titus which 
in my egostic reserve 1 had failed to notice. Since 
the day when I so harshly insulted him, he had 
flung himself into the very whirlwind of “ philos- 
ophy ” till then strange to him ; and his poor head 
was completely turned thereby. He had thrown 
aside his notes for books on social questions, which 
he studied incessantly, neglecting lectures, and 
never missing a single meeting. Jumping on the 
benches in the lecture-halls, he would strike into 
the middle of any discussion whatever, listening to 
nobody and continually interrupting other speakers 
rudely and vociferously. At first his fellow-students 
could not make it out ; then they took to laughing 
and finally, on the day in question there had been 
hot work ; for Titus was becoming a regular ob- 
structionist. The others attacked him, demanding 


IN TWO MOODS. 


151 

a plain exposition of his views and trying to refute 
his arguments. This made Titus half frantic ; in 
his excitement he stamped on the floor, repeating 
over and over again the same words : — 

“You are talking nonsense, all of you, sheer 
nonsense. ” 

I heard of all this afterwards. But now Titus 
stood before me with his cap shoved on to the 
back of his head, incoherently recounting his ex- 
ploits. 

“There ; you hear what he said ; and I said to 
him : — ‘ No but wait a bit ! ’ . . . Why ! what- 
ever is the matter with you, Gavrik ? Good 
God ! 

His face suddenly changed and became for a 
moment the face of the old Titus, anxious and 
startled. 

“Leave me alone, for goodness sake, '' I said 
hoarsely, pushing him aside. “ I want to sleep, ” 
and throwing myself down on my bed I hid my 
face in the pillow. 

Titus came up to me on tip-toe, and after a short 
silence said softly, in the tone of a man thunder- 
struck and almost in despair : — 

“Oh! dear, oh dear! See what all this philos- 
ophy comes to. I wish it was all at the devil . . . 
by Jove I . . . 


152 


JN TWO MOODS, 


XXIV. 

Now began the darkest days of my life. I was 
growing afraid of myself ; afraid of yielding to that 
dissecting, analyzing impulse which I had hitherto 
blindly obeyed. I tried to restrain it by violent ex- 
ercise and physical stupefaction, an expedient, 
however, that only answered so long as I was act- 
ually at work. I tramped about for days together 
and wandered over all the suburbs of Moscow, 
never getting home till late at night. My feet 
ached with weariness ; there were* times when I felt 
utterly worn out ; nevertheless my eyes were burn- 
ing and the fatigue soon passed away. 

One day, as I crossed the bridge, I heard hurried 
footsteps behind me, and looking back saw Madame 
Sokolov. She was running quickly, with her hair 
in disorder, and her shawl awry. Observing that 
there was no one but myself on the bridge, I stop- 
ped, in some perplexity. 

“Wait, ” she said, panting for breath; “ here is 
a letter for you. " 


IN TWO MOONS 


153 

I took the little note out of her hand. It was 
fiom Tonia, and consisted of a few words written 
in pencil : — 

“Come to-morrow to the villa on the highroad. 
I ask you as a favor. It is very important for 
me. 

Tonia." 

“All right!" I said. 

Madame Sokolov, who by this time had regained 
her breath and straightened her shawl, made me a 
curtsey which at any other time would have set me 
off into a fit of laughing. 

“All right," she repeated, imitating me ; “have 
you no further commands ? " 

I looked at her with hatred. 

“I have nothing more to say." 

“ Good gracious ! " said Madame Sokolov, “how 
important ! . . . I daresay you imagine that I 
came tearing along here like a wild thing for your 
sake. Please don’t get that into your head. I 
didn’t. " 

“ I have never dared to hope ...” 

“The reason I did it was because otherwise 
Tonia wjould have come to you herself; and I 
wanted to spare her that unpleasantness . . . be- 


cause . . 


154 


IN TWO MOODS. 


Thank you, Katerina Filippovna,” I replied 
simply and with sudden sincerity. 

This unexpected answer and the tone of it 
seemed to surprise Madame Sokolov. She looked 
at me for a few seconds with her small and ugly 
yet honest eyes, and turned sharply away. 

“Bah ! there is no making you out. But it strikes 
me, young man, that you are giving yourself 
airs. . . 

“ I do not take upon myself to contradict you,” 
said I, resuming the tones of delicate irony which 
vexed Madame Sokolov more than actual imperti- 
nence would have done. 

“There! why the deuce should I stand arguing 
with you ! If it was not that I am sorry for Tonia, 
Td . . . Bah ! what fools we women are I ” 

I remained for a few minutes watching her un- 
gainly figure as she went away, and repeating to 
myself her last words. 

For some time past I had attended our students' 
meetings so seldom that I was hardly aware of the 
great change which had taken place in their tone. 
The purely student interest seemed to have receded 
into the background ; the discussions w^ere less 
noisy and more logical ; the tone more serious. 
The juvenile excitement, vivacity, and enthusiasm 


IN TWO MOODS. 


155 

of former days appeared to be taking a broader 
and better defined course. 

All this reached me as a muffled sound from afar, 
falling on my ear despite the other matters which 
occupied my mind. I had, however, been in some 
measure prepared for the new departure by the in- 
coherent accounts of my friend Titus ; but the free 
discussion which I had heard affected me only as 
his own talk had affected me. I listened to them 
with a languid feeling of contemptuous indifference. 

The villa to which Tonia invited me was some 
way off, on a road where there was little traffic. It 
was entirely covered with snow, and the footpaths 
were buried under the drifts. Most of the villas 
were boarded up, and only here and there a frozen 
window looked out into the desolation. Once in a 
way a sidepath turned to some garden gate and a 
light gleamed across the heaps of snow. 

When I came to the villa formerly occupied by 
the General I stopped. On the balcony, between 
the pillars, where the old gentleman used to play 
at chess with Urmanov, the snow lay thick. There 
was not a single track to the house, which looked 
terribly bleak and cold, and only a single pine-tree 
hard by the wall beat one of its boughs against the 
window. I leaned on the fence, and for a long 


156 IN TWh MOODS. 

while stood looking at this desolate, inhospitable 
dwelling. 

Quite near, there shone through the trees, the 
lighted windows of a large villa, through which I 
could see a throng of dark shapes standing close 
together. I had but to turn my head, and, instead 
of the General’s empty villa, I saw the lighted house 
where she was. The contrast awoke within me a 
strange feeling. From one side gazed on me 
memories filled with the cold of death ; on the 
other was a crowd of young life, and talk of life. 
And there, too, was she whom I both loved and 
feared. ... I broke into a lau^h. The fantastic 
idea occurred to me that the people in the large 
house were praying . . . perhaps to man, perhaps 
to idols, but still praying. . . . And yet the little 
villa was telling me that there is nothing in this 
world to pray to. . . . 

I stood a long time, as it were, under some 
strange spell. At last, I tore myself away, and 
went slowly to the large house, stopping occasion- 
ally to look back. 

The hall was hung round with overcoats ; and 
traces of snowy boots were visible on the floor. 
Some of the men had made seats of their coats and 
were talking in low voices. But most of them 


IN TWO MOODS. 


157 

were gathered in the large room. The air was full 
of smoke, the room faintly lighted with a single 
lamp \ and at first I could see only a mass of heads, 
all turned in the same direction — towards some- 
body who was reading aloud in a clear yet some- 
what harsh and pedantic voice. 

Before I had time to look round a young girl 
Came forward from near one of the windows. She 
took me by the hand and whispered in my ear : — 

“Why are you so late .? ” 

I made no answer. 

“Gome here ... as we used to.” 

She led me through a side passage into the host’s 
bedroom. Here sat only the Sokolovs and Cher- 
nov. Sokolov sat with folded hands, his rough, 
serious face turned towards the open door. As I 
entered, Madame Sokolov exchanged glances with 
Chernov, who moved nearer the door. 

“Sit down here,” said Tonia. “Now, hush! 
listen. ” 

We sat on a chest, as in the old days. Tonia 
seemed pleased at this ; but for a whole quarter of 
an hour she did not once turn towards me. A ray 
of light from the next room fell on her face, which 
wore a look expressive of intense and earnest atten- 
tion. As I watched her eager eyes and parted lips, 


158 IN TWO MOODS. 

I realized that this matter was for her not one of 
curiosity merely, but the turning-point of an im- 
portant question. So I began to listen carefully to 
what was being read. But though I heard I found 
it amazingly difficult to understand. In addition 
to the thoughts which for some time past had oc- 
cupied my mind there was room in it for Tonia. I 
could still think of her without much effort. I real- 
ized that I was sitting beside her ; everything else, 
however, was far away, and it gave me great 
trouble to piece together the separate ideas con- 
tained in the pamphlet which was being read. 

It concerned the irredeemable debt of the edu- 
cated classes to the people ; told how this debt must 
needs go on growing ; and insisted on the pressing 
necessity of a solution of the question. . . . The 
reading ceased. There was a slight rustle and 
some coughing in the room ; then silence. The 
whole company waited for one of the habitual ora- 
tors to speak ; but the silence continued longer 
than usual. 

Suddenly, to my great surprise, the voice of Ti- 
tus broke the stillness : — 

'‘Allow me, friends ... I should like to read to 
you. . . . Zaitzev writes ...” 

He spoke so easily that I was amazed. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


159 

“No, no ! we don’t want it,” interrupted several 
voices; “ we know . . 

“No ; but why? Allow me.” 

“You must let him have his say.” 

^‘Well, but look here, friends, he is wandering 
from the point. . . .”. 

“ Let the man have his say, then,” broke in the 
harsh voice of the reader ; “ but of course no sense 
will come of it ; all the same, let him ring his 
chime out, and come down from the steeple ! ” 

Titus found a marked place in the book, and read 
aloud a short quotation, then passed to the subject 
of the former reading. No one interrupted him. 
Besides our own set, there were in the room a 
number of Moscow students ; and they took his 
part. I observed several attentive faces. It was, 
however, evident that no one could make out what 
the quotation from Zaitzev had to do with the mat- 
ter under discussion ; and many looked forward 
with interest to his explanation. But Titus’s speech 
was incoherent and incomprehensible. Why he 
quoted Zaitzev passed my comprehension ; never- 
theless, I did not find his observations utterly de- 
void of meaning. When he spoke of the people, I 
remembered our old Markelych, the corridor phil- 
osopher and veteran of the days of Nicholas, who 


l6o TWO MOODS. 

was bound to Titus by ties of mutual sympathy. 
But at the meeting there reigned quite a different 
ideal of the people ; it was the historical people, 
the people of folk-songs, the creators of the village 
commune. In addition to this, Titus got entangled 
in his talk ; and, fearing to be interrupted, hurried 
on, and became still worse confused. 

There ! Shut up ! ” said somebody. 

“ No, no ; let me finish ! ” cried Titus, in an in- 
jured tone. 

The comparative ease with which he had spoken, 
and the attention of his audience, had slightly 
turned his head. 

“No, no! We won’t have it! Shut up; we 
have had enough,” 

On this, the proceedings became uproarious. 
Titus shouted, but his voice was drowned in the 
increasing din. We could hear laughter, and, from 
the further corner, peculiar exclamations of the 
schoolboy sort. 

“Every time the same thing,” said some one; 
“anybody would think he was doing it for fun ; he 
comes on purpose, just to obstruct, confound 
him ! ” 

“Why, good people, he doesn’t do it of his own 
accord,” remarked the seminarist Rouchin, shrug- 


IN TWO MOODS. l6i 

ging his shoulders as he stood on the window-sill. 
“Somebody else puts him up to it” 

Rouchin was a naive and excitable lad, who fell 
into a state of fanatical adoration of every new idea 
that was presented to his boyish gaze, and im- 
agined that all the powers of darkness were at that 
moment collecting in arms to attack the villa among 
the snowdrifts and strangle the new world in its 
birth. 

“What’s that? Who puts him to this? What 
nonsense ! ” resounded from all sides. 

“No, it is true. And I know who it is — Gav- 
rilov. ” 

My name rang out with startling suddenness. 
Several faces near the door turned to me. Tonia 
shuddered. 

This startling charge produced at first deep 
silence, followed the next moment by a flood of 
talk. Some of the men expressed doubt; others 
defended me ; the din became terrific. 

“ It is true,” broke in the harsh voice of Chernov, 
from our room, above the uproar, and he jumped 
up in his usual angular way, “he even sneaks 
into gardens, and peeps under win ...” 

Tonia, with a terrified and miserable face, started 
up hurriedly, and caught him by the arm, 

II 


i 62 


IN TWO MOODS, 


“Hush! Hold your tongue; do you hear?” 
she said imperatively. 

Chernov turned round and would have said 
something ; but Madame Sokolov seized him, and 
forced him back into his seat. 

Sit still when you are told. What a nuisance 
you are I ” 

Chernov submitted. 

Tonia turned to me with a white face ; and I 
could read in her eyes an entreaty not to be angry. 

“Come along,” she said softly. 

“Why? ” said I, looking straight into her eyes. 

“ I . . . I ask you, please.” 

I rose. In an ante-room, I found her gray cloak, 
and held it for her. She put in one arm ; then, in 
an embarrassed way, pulled the cloak away from 
me, and put it on herself. I would have helped 
Madame Sokolov too ; but she simply snatched her 
cloak from my hands. 

Tonia tied her shawl, and drew her hair from 
under her collar, then, ‘when we were on the road, 
she hurried along nervously, slipping in the snow- 
drifts. 

As we passed the General’s villa, I again fixed 
my eyes on its dark windows, and glanced back 
at the big house. 


IN TWO MOODS. 


163 


How stupid ! ” I involuntarily exclaimed. 

Tonia walked on more rapidly ; but Madame 
Sokolov, who wore a summer hat, turned her head, 
towards me, and said sharply : — 

“Well, what is there so very particular ? . . . He 
cannot even hold his tongue, but must begin to 
whine. . . . Cannot you see that Tonia is not 
happy?” she added softly; “you are a precious 
lot 1 ” 


i64 


IN TWO MOODS. 


XXV. 

When we had gone a little way Tonia slackened 
her pace, and Madame Sokolov went on before us. 

“What on earth can have happened to Titus 
Ivanich ? ” said Madame Sokolov without turning 
round. “Deuce take it ! He is just like a dog that 
has broken his chain. And he used to be so quiet. ” 

When Tonia fell behind, I was walking with her, 
and although we both were ill-at-ease, remained 
with her. 

“ I want to ask you,” she began gently, and then 
stopped. 

“If you, too, are curious concerning Titus, I 
can tell you beforehand I know nothing. I have 
nothing to do with it. You believe me, I 
hope } ” 

“There is no need for you to tell me that,” said 
the girl simply. “ I believe you incapable of it. 
Indeed, I ... I myself have to ask your forgive- 
ness. ” 

“There ! As liyou need to apologize,” Madame 


IN TWO MOODS. 165 

Sokolov broke in again, without turning round; 
“ too much honor.” 

“Let us alone, Katia ! Go on in front, can’t you ? ” 

Madame Sokolov walked on quickly ; and her 
ugly, angular figure disappeared in the darkness. 
Tonia walked with her head bent down. 

“ I wanted to ask you,” she began again, as if 
screwing up her courage, “ what you think of all 
this ? ” 

“Of Titus’s pranks ? ” 

“Why, no, no! Of what Gribkov was read- 
ing. ...” 

“Ah 1 Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t listen 
carefully. It isn’t a bad pamphlet ; pretty fair. ...” 

“Is that all.?” 

“ What don’t people write, Antonina Dimitrievna ? 
So many different things are written. ” 

“Look here, Gavrik,” she began, walking more 
slowly and lowering her voice, as though she ex- 
pected that, being alone with her, I should become 
different; “ why do you always . . . why do you 
talk that way .? It is not your own self ; you know 
it is not you who speak thus.” 

“ Really, I don’t know how to answer you. So 
far I feel as if I were myself ; but perhaps I may 
be mistaken.” 


i66 


IN TWO MOODS, 


“ You . . . you are laughing at me? ... I don’t 
quite understand.” 

“Not at all. A thing of this kind happened to 
me ; — I knew, or imagined I kifew, a certain per- 
son ; I even loved him ; and then, somehow, instead 
of him, I saw a heap of dirt. ...” 

“No,” the girl interrupted, in a tone of distress ; 
“I don’t understand at all. Did you read my 
letter? ” 

“I didn’t read any letter.” 

“You didn’t read my letter through ? ” 

“ I didn’t receive any letter. ” 

She sighed with relief. 

“I wrote you a letter from Trzaritrzyn. I asked 
you for your opinion. Well now, listen, Gavrik. 

. . .You see, I don’t believe people when they say 
all those things about you. I don’t even believe 
you yourself. I believe in the old Gavrik, that I 
. . . do you remember ? . . . used to have so many 
long talks with ... I have got into the habit of 
talking to you about things that I never talked 
about to any one else. I trusted you as myself; 
even more than myself. And I trust you now ; 

only don’t talk like that There, then, tell me, 

as you used to. . . . Indeed, I am not asking an 
idle question. Very much depends upon it. Our 


IN TWO MOODS. 167 

whole lives may be different .... For heaven's 
sake, cannot you speak ? ” 

I felt as though my heart would break, something 
within me was struggling painfully to get out, yet 
however hard I tried to give it expression, however 
hard I tried to recall those happy moments of 
which she reminded me I could not. Something 
shut them out of me. 

“I don’t remember anything,” I said, setting my 
teeth. “However, as you like. . . I’ll answer 
your question as well as 1 can. Look at that tree. ” 

By the road stood an aspen. The dead leaves 
that remained on it stirred and rustled softly in 
the darkness. 

“Tell those leave not to shake with the wind.” 

The girl, looking up at the tree-top, listened to 
me with painful attention. 

“ I don’t understand,” she said again. 

“Men, as well as those dead leaves are ruled by 
the same laws.” 

“I know that.” 

“Oh! no; you don't know! Otherwise, you 
wouldn’t dilute your knowledge with the water of 
idealistic impulses. Now, what is there that you 
can do, you, any more than that little worthless 
leaf? . . . You still believe in something.” 


i68 


IN TWO MOODS. 


“In something? Yes, I do.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“ To what end ? What can it do for you ? ” 

“Wait a minute,” she returned earnestly. “I 
am not in the habit of arguing ; above all, with 
you. But wait a bit. You speak ^of law. Law 
consists in this : that there are strong people and 
weak, full and hungry . . . Yes?” 

“ I hope so.” 

“Don’t be satirical. But if. . . if the full go, 
really go to the hungry and feed them, is not that 
law too ? It is a law ; and, moreover, a higher 
law.” 

“There, leave off,” I interrupted with growing 
annoyance. “Who makes such laws as that for 
you ? ” 

“Who? I don’t know that, Gavrik.” 

“And I don’t know. No one makes any laws 
whatever. There are neither higher nor lower 
laws ; there is only one law ; and even that is un- 
conscious of its existence, because it is merely a 
soulless mathematical formula. , . . Do you un- 
derstand ? . . . ” 

“No. Even yet I don’t understand. Wait a 
minute, Gavrik. . .” 

“Ah. And you needn’t understand. . . Heaven 


JN TWO MOODk. 169 

only knows why we should stand still in the mid- 
dle of the road. There, you see ; that’s what all 
these speculations come to. Really you know we 
ought to go home; it is where we sleep. And 
here we stand, without any reason, staring up in- 
to a tree. Well, of course, we shall stand until 
we are tired of it ; and after all we shall end in go- 
ing home to bed. Because bed, dinner, and. . . 
well, something else too, — all that is law ; and ab- 
stract speculations and sky-gazing are simply whims 
and violations of law.” 

“Oh ! you don’t know how it hurts me to hear 
you talk in this way. ” 

On this I laughed maliciously. I wanted to say, 
that, perhaps, it hurt me still more; but a harsh 
little observation came out instead : — 

“I have nothing more agreeable to tell 
you. ” 

At that very moment I was longing to take her 
by the hand and say something quite different. I 
was in the same mental condition as when I in- 
sulted Titus. Through my harsh words, through 
my cruel thoughts, I felt her dear presence and 
felt it approaching me in a halo of tenderness and 
love. And still I went on, expounding my sardonic 
theories, wondering, in fearful suspense, whether 


IN TWO MOODS. 


170 

my love would come fully out of the mist or . . . 
disappear forever ...” 

Listen,” I said to her, softly and tenderly, and 
took her hand in mine. 

She let it rest there, and stood waiting for me to 
speak. 

I thought I was going to say that she must not 
believe me, that I had to ask her forgiveness, that 
I was ill. . . . That she as well as others might 
be mistaken ; that even in errors there is life, yet 
in me there was no life and that I was too faulty 
myself to correct the faults of my fellow-creatures 
. . . that I adored her for still remembering the 
old Gavrik whom every one else had forgotten, and 
that she alone could restore him to life. . . . 

My hand shook and I felt the agitated quivering 
of hers. 

Suddenly, there rose before my eyes Madame 
Sokolov s ugly silhouette, and the question flashed 
through my mind:— Suppose Madame Sokolov was 
questioning you, instead of a girl with a fair tress, 
would your hand shake so and would you say to 
her what is now on your lips? 

And with a trembling and sinking heart, I said, 
instead of what I wanted to say: — 

Why don’t you cut off your hair ? ” 


IN TWO MOODS, 


171 

Her hand quivered violently. 

“ What . . . what did you say ? " she asked 
terrified, and as if not believing her ears. 

Why don’t you cut off your hair, like hers, 
there ? ” and I nodded contemptuously in the direc- 
tion of Madame Sokolov. 

Tonia wrenched her hand from mine, and running 
up to Madame Sokolov took her by the arm, as 
though to embrace her friend and protect her 
from my insults at the same time. 

“ Come here ! ” she commanded me suddenly, 
“come here, I tell you 1 ” 

I went up to her. For a few seconds we all 
three stood silent in the dark road. 

“ No, nothing I ” broke from her at last with 
a sigh, “ I have nothing more to say to you. . . . 
But . . . how dare you insult Katia ?. . .” 

“There, there !" interrupted Madame Sokolov in- 
differently as if it was worth while to speak of 
that ! Leave off, Tonia. ... As for you, sir, I tell 
you plainly you had better say good-bye to your 
queen forever. . . . And I am very glad of it, — 
anyhow she will do good work and not be wasting 
her time on you. ...” 

She would have walked on ; but Tonia did not 


move. 


172 


IN TWO MOODS. 


Don’t you dare — do you hear ? — don’t you 
ever dare again, ...” she began without listening 
to her friend ; ‘‘she is better, a thousand times 
better than you. . . . And yet I trusted you so, 
till now . . . still ...” 

There were tears in her voice, but repressing her 
emotion with an effort she drew herself up to her 
full height, and added : — 

“ And . . . and I . . . loved you so. . . .” 

I bent my head. Again I was overwhelmed 
with pity for myself, as on the evening when I 
watched under her window, only this time the 
feeling was far more intense. I understood that if 
she now spoke of her love in my presence it was 
because, as regarded her, I had become as one dead, 
that she no longer saw in me the old Gavrik whom 
she had once loved. . . . 

When I raised my head, the two women were 
both gone. I was alone on the dark road ; the dry 
leaves were fluttering on the trees, and the wind 
moaned high above my head a long wail of sorrow 
and regret. 

I sank down helplessly on a heap of stones. It 
was as if something were gone out of me and some- 
thing else was again expanding within me. I had 
recovered the power of sorrowing ; and I grieved for 


IN TWO MOODS, 


173 

myself, and because I was alone in the darkness. 
And now at last I could grieve for Urmanov, who 
had been, and whom now I could deeply pity ; and 
for Titus, whom I had repelled ; and for her whom 
I had insulted, and who had gone her lonely way 
without help, without hope, without love ; and I 
sorrowed for this too, that I could believe once 
more, and that the flower buried in dust, my love, 
had burst into full blossom in my soul. But faith 
was come and love had blossomed, too late ; for I 
should perish here alone in the darkness on aheap 
of cold stones. . . . And the darkness thickened 
about me : the wind moaned over my head, rising 
higher and higher ; then it died away and at last I 
heard it no moer. 

Titus, still continuing his discussion with some 
of my fellow-students as they walked home in 
company, found me lying insensible on the road 
and carried me home. I was delirious and in a 
state of high fever. The last saying which I 
remember, as through a fog, was his despairing 
exclamation : — 

“ Oh ! this philosophy ! See what it comes 
to ! May the devil take it for good and all ! I 
have had enough. ...” 


174 


IN TWO MOODS, 


“ And the first face that I saw, when I awoke 
long afterwards, was my dear comrade’s. ^ 

He was sitting with his head resting -on his 
hands ; and whispering his lecture over to himself 
softly, so as not to disturb me. I looked at him 
with the old feeling. How long it was since I had 
seen my Titus ! . . . Ah ! And the Titus that 
shouted at the students’ meetings ! . . . Or was 
that a dream ? 

** Titus ! ” I called. And when, beaming with 
delight, he came to my bedside on tip-toe, I 
asked : — Tell me ; is it true what happened to 
Urmanov, or did I dream it ? ” Titus, as he 
straightened my pillow, said, with ill-concealed 
terror : — 

“ Don’t think about that; you will only fall ill 
again. ” 

So then it was true ; but I knew that I should 
not fall ill again. For even as bespoke, a sense of 
quiet sadness flooded my soul, it was a feeling to 
which I had been so long a stranger ! . . . 

Another question arose in my mind. It made me 
still more sorrowful ; but now I was afraid, terribly 
afraid that it would prove to be a dream. 

** And . . . Tonia ? ” 

Titus was silent. 


IN TWO MOODS, 


175 


“She went away ? Is it true ? ” 

“ She left here the next morning.” 

I sighed, with mingled sorrow and relief. Then, 
after all, my love and her confession were not a 
dream. . . . Neither is it a dream that I repulsed 
her, insulted her, and that she, too, had left me, 
although the last to do so. 

“You don’t know where she is gone? You 
told her of my illness . . . and still, she ...” 

“I did not find her. . . . And where she is 
gone I don’t know ; and, so far, no one knows.” 

“ I know.” 

Titus again looked at me in terror. 

“No; don’t be frightened, Titushka; I really 
know. I might have held her back that evening, 

. . . but, you see. . . . By-the-bye, look in my 
coat ; there ought to be a letter.” 

Titus thought that I was rambling. I confess 
that I too was half afraid as I watched him. 
What if the idea of the letter were really only a 
continuation of my delirium ? 

But when Titus put his hand into the pocket of 
my coat, he found an unopened letter, to his 
great surprise, the same which the porter gave me 
as I was going in to Byelichka’s lecture. I had 
thought then it was from my friend in the country. 


1 76 TWO MOODS. 

It was from Tonia. 

‘‘ Open it and read it,” I said to Titus, motioning 
him to sit down beside me. 

Titus sat down and began to read in a timidly- 
hesitating voice, which seemed to make the letter 
still dearer to me. 

The contents of the letter were almost childishly 
naive. The girl told me her impressions and her 
new ideas about herself, about us all, and about 
the people which had come into her mind. When 
I took the little sheet of paper in my hand and 
looked at it, all the tenderness and the hope of the 
old days breathed on me once more. The letter 
ended with the request that I would meet her at 
the station on a day which she named. She 
wanted to talk over everything with me before 
speaking to anybody else, and to ask my advice 
as to how she ought to shape her life. 

“You know I am an orphan ; I have no one 
belonging to me in the world.” Thus ended the 
letter; and I felt that in these half-jesting words 
the girl had made to me a shy half-confes- 
sion. . . . 

A few grammatical mistakes looked innocently 
at me out of the letter. And this child is putting 
forth her feeble hands to stop the tremendous 


IN I'WC MOODS, 


177 

wheel of life. . . . What a mistake, and yet, 
what truth and earnest faith. . . . 

She appealed to me to help her to decide, . . . 
And I. . . . What have I done ? Instead of show- 
ing her the mistake in the form, I tried to tear up 
by the roots her faith in that in which if we would 
live we must believe. 

And she is gone her way. . .alone. . . . 

I fell into deep thought and my eyes filled with 
tears. But they were tears of joy as well as of 
grief. In thought I can again wander freely over 
the world. Somewhere in its wide expanse my 
love is lost to ken among unknown dangers. But 
now I can go in search of her. And when I find 
her I shall dare to meet her eyes, to fight for her, 
and even to fight against her. . . . 

Because now I have faith ; first of all in her, 
next in humanity. . . . And beyond these glimmers 
the dawn of still other faiths. 

And this is the golden cloud of a new mood ; 
into whatever shape it may unfold my heart tells 
me that at least it will be life. 



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IN BAD SOCIETY. 


FROM THE CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS OF A 
FRIEND OF MINE. 


I. 

A CASTLE IN RUINS. 

After the death of my mother, who died when 
I was six years old, my father seemed to become 
utterly oblivious to my existence. He fondled and 
caressed my little sister because she reminded him 
of her whom he had lost. But I grew up as 
neglected and uncared-for as a wild tree of the 
forest. Nobody looked after me ; on the other 
hand, nobody interfered in my boyish freedom. I 
was left to do as I liked and go whither I would. 

The little place where we lived was called 
Prince’s Town. It belonged to a poor yet proud 
Polish family of princely rank, in this respect 


i 82 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


resembling most other small towns in the south- 
west corner of Russia, w^here side by side with the 
monotonous everyday life of the toiling masses and 
the feverish bustle of petty, money-grubbing Jewish 
traders, the grandeur of the ancient magnates of the 
land is slowly decaying. 

If you approach the town from the east, the first 
object to attract your attention will be the prison. 
It is the principal building and chief ornament of 
the place. The town proper, which lies a little 
way off, and on a lower level than this portentous 
edifice, in the neighborhood of two greenish stag- 
nant meres, appears to have sunk into a deathlike 
sleep. Thitherward slopes gently, through green 
fields, a macadamized road, barred in the middle by 
the usual turnpike. A blear-eyed cripple, whose 
stolid face is burnt brick-red by continual exposure 
to the sun, looses the rope which holds the gate, 
and you are in the town — although you may not at 
first realize the fact, so little is it like a town. 
Gray fences of weatherbeaten boards — waste lands 
encumbered with rubbish heaps— and here and there 
a mi'serable mole-eyed cottar half sunk into the 
ground. Further on is a great straggling market- 
place, surrounded by gloomy, wide-mouthed Jew- 
ish drinking-dens, while gaunt government offices, 


A CASTLE IN RUINS, 183 

white-walled, slab-sided and of barrack-like archi- 
tecture, otfend the eye with their unspeakable ugli- 
ness. The wooden bridge which bestrides the 
wretched river groans and squeaks under your car- 
riage like a wayworn old man under a heavy 
burden. Beyond the bridge is the Jewish quarter, 
with its shops, warehouses, hucksters’ stands, 
bakers' sheds and money-changers’ stalls, whose 
owners sit on the pavement, half-hidden under huge 
umbrellas. For the rest, more evil smells than 
could be counted in Cologne, and a crowd of small 
children wriggling like eels in the mud. 

A few minutes more and the town is behind you. 
The birch-trees are whispering gently over the 
graves in the churchyard, the wind is swaying with 
rhythmic movements the illimitable sea of verdant 
green, and singing its monotonous melody in the 
wires of the telegraph poles which stand spectre- 
like in the road. 

The river which flows under the aforesaid bridge 
rises in one of the meres and runs into the other, 
so that to the north and south-west the town is 
bounded by marshes and streaks of water. The 
meres become shallower every year, and are over- 
grown with tall and thick reeds, which rustle and 
wave like an enormous jungle. In the middle of 


1 84 bad socie ty, 

one of these meres is an island, and on the island 
a ruined castle. 

I remember with what superstitious dread I used 
to look upon this tumbledown old building. 
Stories, each more awesome than the other, were 
whispered about it among the townsfolk. The 
legend ran that the island was the work of men’s 
hands — made by the Turkish prisoners of Polish 
nobles. 

“The castle is built on dead men’s bones,” old 
people were wont to say ; and my frightened 
childish imagination pictured thousands of Turkish 
skeletons supporting with bony hands the island, 
and its tall poplars and tumbledown castle. These 
tales, and others of similar import, naturally 
invested the ruins with a nameless horror. Even 
on bright days, when cheered by the sunshine and 
the joyful chirruping of birds, we children seldom 
went near the castle without falling into a panic. 
The dark broken window-panes stared at us so 
stolidly, the sounds which came from the deserted 
rooms were so fearful and mysterious, that we 
would run away as fast as our little legs could 
carry us, afraid even to look round, and fancying 
we could hear behind us the trampling of skeleton 
feet and the shouting of ghostly voices. 


A CASTLE IN RUINS. 185 

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant 
poplars waved and wailed in the fierce wind which 
rushed upon them from the marshes, the whole 
town would be in mortal terror. 

“ Lord, have mercy on us,” the Jews exclaimed 
fearfully ; the pious lighted candles before the ikons 
of the saints, and even a freethinking blacksmith, 
who disbelieved in the occult powers, made the 
sign of the cross as he entered his garden, and 
recited in a low voice a prayer for the souls of the 
unknown dead. 

Whiteheaded old Yanush, who having no home 
of his own, had taken up his quarters in the castle 
cellar, assured us that on stormy nights he often 
distinctly heard cries and groans, deep down in 
the earth. The buried Turks were making a ter- 
rible uproar, howling, knocking their old bones 
together, and complaining of the cruelties which 
they had suffered at the hands of their Polish mas- 
ters. And, as if in answer to these sounds from 
the nether world, the halls of the old castle echoed 
with the din of weapons and the harsh voices of 
nobles calling their men to arms. 

Yanush protested that he had heard, amid the 
whistling of the tempest, the trampling of hoofs, 
the clang of steel, and words of command. The 


1 86 IN BAD SOCIETY, 

old fellow even averred that he once saw the 
great grandfather of the present count, a noble re- 
nowned for his bloody exploits and evil life, ride 
on his charger right up to the castle gate, and curse 
with fearful oaths the noisy people below. 

The descendants of this terrible Count no longer 
dwelt in their ancestral halls, and the greater part 
of the ancestral wealth had long since found its 
way to the hovels of the Jewish usurers over the 
bridge. Then, being unable to maintain their 
ancient state, they built for themselves a mean- 
looking house on a hill outside the town ; where 
in solemn and scornful isolation they spent their 
dull and pompous lives. 

At long intervals the old Count, who was as 
great a ruin as his tumbledown castle, rode into 
the town on his old English horse. On these 
occasions he was invariably accompanied by the 
dry and majestic Countess, his daughter, a groom 
riding respectfully behind her. This grand lady 
was doomed to remain a spinster to the end of her 
days. All the eligible young nobles of the neigh- 
borhood had sold their ancestral seats to the Jews 
for building materials, and were scattered far and 
wide in search of middle-class heiresses, with 
whose fortunes they might recruit their own. No 


A CASTLE IN RUINS, 187 

young man of the town, however rich, would dare 
to raise his eyes to the stately Countess. When 
ever we children saw the old Count and his daughter 
pass by we fled like frightened birds and hid our- 
selves behind a hedge, whence we would gaze 
with wondering eyes at these strange people, who 
seemed to us to partake of the nature of ghosts. 

West of the town, amid rotting crosses and sunk- 
en graves, stood the ruined chapel of the Uniates. 
This chapel had an intimate connection with the 
townspeople, who on their part had always been 
more or less at enmity with the lords of the castle. 
In times gone by its loud-mouthed bell had been 
wont to summon to their feudal duty stalwart 
workmen and thrifty burghers, all attired in neat 
though not costly tabards and armed with staves, 
nobles alone being allowed to carry warlike wea- 
pons. These humiliations, the memory of which 
still survived, had left a sore feeling in the mind of 
those by whose ancestors they had been endured. 

From the chapel porch could be seen the island, 
and the great dark poplars by which it was sur- 
rounded. But the castle seemed to hide itself 
haughtily from its humble rival in an impenetra- 
ble mantle of verdure. Only when the wild west 
wind made a rift in the row of tall poplars, two or 


i88 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


three of the castle windows, frowning darkly to- 
wards the chapel, were for a moment made visi- 
ble. 

Now, both were corpses. The castle was now 
a sightless old fellow. So was the chapel. Its 
roof was broken, its walls were falling assunder, 
and the great bronze bell, whose clear notes once 
called the faithful to prayer, had been succeeded 
by a colony of owls which made night hideous 
with their ill-omened cries. But, curiously enough, 
the traditional feud between the aristocratic castle 
and the plebeian chapel still continued. It was 
carried on by the worms that nestled in their 
corpses — the poor and miserable* who had taken 
up their abode in the cellars and sheltered corners 
of the respective ruins. 

Only a few years previously the castle had 
served as free quarters for all comers. All for 
whom there was no place in the town — vagabonds, 
houseless wanderers, beggars, fugitives from jus- 
tice, and the like — all these bent their steps to- 
wards the ruined castle sure of finding in it a ref- 
uge where they would run no other risk than the 
rather remote one of being crushed by a falling 
stone. 

‘*To live in the castle ” became an expression 


A CASTLE IN RUINS. 189 

which denoted the very extremity of want, des- 
titution, and social degradation. Its old walls 
sheltered alike honest poverty and shameless rags, 
the broken clerk and the professional thief, the 
ruined drunkard and the deserted wife. But they 
repaid this easy hospitality with base ingratitude — 
tearing up the floors, breaking window-sashes, and 
gutting the castle generally, in order to provide 
fuel for the fires which they made nightly in the 
great hall and other parts of the building, to cook 
their food and dry their clothes. 

Moreover, a time came when the vagabond 
dwellers among the ruins fell to quarrelling among 
themselves; whereupon old Yanush, who in the 
palmy days of the lords" castle occupied some 
subordinate post in their household, and had long 
been the unacknowledged chief of the ragged re- 
public, assumed the office of dictator, and carried 
out a series of radical reforms. His measures 
(though supported by a strong party) being natural- 
ly opposed by those whose interests they affected, 
a veritable civil war broke out, and for several days 
the noise and confusion were so great that many a 
one thought that the imprisoned Turks had broken 
loose and were taking a terrible revenge on the 
ghosts of their cruel masters. In the end, how- 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


190 

ever — thanks to the silent though substantial sup- 
port of the local policemen — Yanush prevailed. 
The recusants were expelled, and peace reigned 
once more in the old castle. 

The revolution was of a decidedly clerical and 
aristocratic character, the popular party being utter- 
ly worsted. Yanush allowed to remain in the 
castle only those whom he chose to consider good 
Christians ; that is to say Roman Catholics, most 
of whom, moreover, were either former servants of 
the Counts or their descendants — old men attired 
in the cast-off, utterly worn-out garments of gen- 
tility, with wrinkled faces, great dark-blue noses, 
and thick sticks ; ugly quarrelsome old women, 
who, albeit in the last stage of indigence, made a 
show of dressing like ladies. These creatures 
formed an exclusive aristocratic society and arro- 
gated to themselves the monopoly of official 
beggary. On week-days they went from house to 
house begging, whining, complaining of their lot, 
and retailing scandalous gossip. On Sundays they 
were foremost among the priviledged mendicants 
who press into church porches and receive the alms 
of the charitable. 

When the struggle at the castle had been going 
on for some time, we children, attracted by the 


A CASTLE IN RUINS, 


191 

hubbub, and curious to know what it was all about, 
went over to the island and hid ourselves behind 
the trunk of a huge poplar. We were just in time 
for the catastrophe. We saw Yanush at the head 
of a whole army of blue-nosed old men and vixenish 
women expel the last of the recusants. The sun 
was setting, and from a dark cloud over the tree- 
tops heavy drops were beginning to fall. Wretched 
human shapes, clothed in rags, frightened and 
miserable, wandered frantically about the island, 
trying like moles, to creep back furtively to their 
holes. But Yanush and his vixens, armed with 
sticks and pokers, were too many for them ; and 
the policeman stood by, baton in hand, observing 
a neutrality which was evidently favorable to the 
victors. 

The defeated had no choice but to clear out, and 
with drooping heads and hang-dog looks they 
shuffled over the bridge, leaving the island for- 
ever, and sank, one after the other, into the drizzly 
darkness of the fast falling night. 

Thenceforth the castle and island lost, for me, 
all their fascination and charm. Beforetime I 
delighted to contemplate from a distance the gray 
walls and moss-grown roof of the ancient strong- 
hold. When, at early morning, the queer inmates 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


192 

crawled out, gaping, coughing, wheezing, crossing 
themselves, and turning their faces to the sun, I 
regarded them with a feeling akin to aw'e, as beings 
to whom appertained something of the mystery 
which surrounded the castle. They slept there and 
needs heard and saw all that befel on nights when 
the moon shone through the broken windows into 
the deserted rooms and the tempest raged about the 
broken turrets. 

And I liked dearly to sit with Yanush, under the 
poplar-trees, listening to his garrulous talk, and 
devouring his stories of the bygone glories of the 
ruined house and its former owners. To my 
childish imagination these visions of the past ap- 
peared as real as the actual present, filling my 
heart with grave melancholy, and a vague sympathy 
with the life which those battered walls had wit- 
nessed. The gloom of sad memories swept over 
my soul as the cloud-shadows on a windy day 
sweep over the bright green of a freshly mown 
meadow. 

But after the expulsion of the rebellious beggars 
my feelings towards the old castle and its historian 
entirely changed. On the morrow Yanush, meet- 
ing me near the island, asked me to pay him a 
visit, observing complacently that now even the 


A CASTLE IN RUINS. 


193 

son of so respectable a father as mine might enter 
the castle without hesitation and in the full assur- 
ance that he would meet only good company. As 
he spoke, he took my hand and led me towards the 
gate, but when we got there I broke away from 
him and ran off, crying, the place had become 
hateful to me. The windows in the upper stories 
were boarded up, and the ground-floor was in 
possession of the vixens and their blue-nosed com- 
panions, who flattered me so outrageously, and 
looked so ugly, and abused each other so venom- 
ously, that I wondered greatly how the ferocious 
old Count, who so effectively silenced the rebellious 
Turks on stormy nights, could put up with the 
presence of these disreputable vagabonds. I could 
neither forget the cruelty which they had shown 
in expelling their former fellow-sufferers, nor think 
without pain of those wretched creatures, driven 
from their only shelter into the fast falling rain. 

13 


194 


IN.BAD SOCIETY, 


IL 

DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 

For several nights after the events described in 
the foregoing chapter the little town was in a state 
of great excitement ; the dogs barked, the doors 
creaked on their hinges, and the people were con- 
tinually coming out of their houses and striking 
the walls w\th their sticks — by way of warning all 
whom it might concern that they were on their 
guard. 

They knew that, creeping about the streets, were 
two or three score homeless wanderers, hungry, 
shivering and soaked with rain. Thu townsfolk 
being. well aware that hungry waifs, who have 
nowhere to lay their heads, are apt to be desperate, 
and desperate men are often dangerous. Moreover, 
to make matters worse, the weather was about as 
bad as it well could be. The days were gray and 
gloomy, the nights moonless and cold ; the rain 
came down continually, the wind howled and 
raged, rocking the tree-tops, banging doors, shak^ 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS, 


195 

ing shutters, and singing to me in my bed of home- 
less and houseless men. 

But at last budding spring got the better of retreat- 
ing winter ; the rain relented, the sun dried up the 
roads and fields, and the waifs disappeared. The 
dogs stopped their nocturnal barkings, people no 
longer thought it necessary to strike the walls 
with their sticks, and the town relapsed into its 
normal dulness. Then came the hot long summer 
days; the sun, rolling through the sky vault, turned 
the dusty town into a furnace, sending the shrewd 
sons of Israel into their dirty hovels, while brokers 
on the look-out for business stretched themselves 
lazily on the ground and dozed with one eye open. 
Through the open windows of the government 
offices could be seen the clerks busily plying their 
pens, and stopping at frequent intervals to wipe 
their perspiring faces. In the early morning ladies 
went a-marketing basket in hand ; after the heat of 
the day they walked with their husbands, their long 
dresses trailing on the ground and leaving behind 
them a cloud of dust. The old men and women 
from the castle knocked softly at their benefactors' 
doors, so as not to disturb the general repose. For 
their right to live by begging was freely and gener- 
ously recognized, and it seemed quite in the nature 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


196 

of things that they should present themselves, Sun- 
day after Sunday, at the church door asking for 
alms. 

In short, the position of these vagrants in society 
was clearly defined, and they knew it. 

But the unfortunates who had been expelled from 
the castle were still outcasts, they had no position 
in the society whatever, — as yet. True, they no 
longer roamed the streets by night ; and the rumor 
ran that these unfortunates had found a refuge near 
the old chapel in the mountain ; though precisely 
where, nobody could tell, any more than how they 
contrived to live. The only thing certain was that 
nearly every morning a number of grotesquely 
dressed, disreputable-looking individuals came from 
the direction of the mountain, and towards even- 
ing returned towards the same quarter. Their ap- 
pearance had a disturbing effect on the drowsy 
quietude of the sleepy little town, where they 
seemed like black stains on an even gray back- 
ground. The towns people eyed them askance, the 
outcasts returning their distrustful looks with in- 
quisitive defiant glances ; for the vagabonds of the 
chapel did not in the least resemble the aristocratic 
beggars of the castle. Instead of flattering the towns- 
folk they abused them, liking better to live by their 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 


197 

wits and dexterity than to ask for charity and exist 
on alms. Their lives would have been easier if 
they had shown less independence, and among 
them were men whose intelligence and ability 
would have made them shining lights at the castle, 
where, moreover, they would have been gladly re- 
ceived. But they were unable to put up with castle 
society, and preferred that of the chapel. Some of 
the outcasts had evidently strange histories behind 
them, histories of tragedy and passion. 

I shall never forget how the street used to ring 
with laughter when the sad stooping figure of 
the old “ Professor ” passed by. He was an in- 
offensive old fellow dressed in an ancient “ dread- 
nought, ’’ and wearing a large hat with a protru- 
ding shade. His quasi-scientific title had probably 
been bestowed upon him because of a vague tra- 
dition that he was once tutor in a family of distinc- 
tion. A more miserable looking being could hardly 
be imagined. He went through the streets with bent 
head and sullen gaze, the butt of all the idle rabble 
of the town, who having discovered his failings 
amused themselves cruelly at the poor old man's 
expense. Owing to some peculiar mental infirmity 
the Professor could be wound up like a clock, by 
no matter what question, when he would go on 


198 bad society. 

talking and muttering almost interminably. It was 
the old man’s other peculiarity, however, which 
most amused people. While he was thus mum- 
bling and muttering, heedless whether he was 
listened to or not, somebody would suddenly 
shout “knives and scissors ! knives and scissors ! ” 

The words acted like magic. The poor old man, 
to whom'the mention of any lethal weapon was 
agony, would start as if he had been shot, and 
holding his hands to his side exclaim piteously — 

“ Right in the heart. ... A spear in the heart I ” 

Whereupon his delighted audience would laugh 
still more heartily, and as he hurried away, repeat 
mockingly “ knives and scissors ! knives and 
scissors ! ” 

If, however, when the rabble were tormenting 
the poor old fellow, any of the outcasts from the 
chapel happened to be near he did not go un- 
avenged, for to do them justice, they always stood 
by each other. Did Turkevitch or, better still, 
Jousailov chance to turn up, many of the victim’s 
persecutors had to pay dearly for their amusement. 
Jousailov, a man of great stature and strength with 
a red nose and prominent eyes, was at war with 
every one who was better off than himself. When- 
ever he caught the Hebrew riff-raff playing tricks 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 


199 

on the Professor, or any other member of the com- 
munity, he would rush at them like a whirlwind, 
smashing everything in his way, overthrowing 
their booths, trampling their wares in the mud, 
and knocking weak-bodied Israelites down by 
the dozen. In this way the valiant Jousailov began 
the anti-Jewish riots long before they assumed the 
serious proportions which they have since taken in 
South-West Russia. He tormented the Jews whom 
he took captive and shocked their wives by his im- 
proprieties. These exploits always ended in his 
being taken to the police station, whither he was 
dragged by the police sergeants after a fierce 
struggle in which both sides showed courage. 

Another member of the community, whom the 
respectable townsfolk considered a legitimate object 
for persecution, was Lavrosky, a hopeless drunkard, 
once a Civil Service employe. Many remembered 
the time when he was a respectable neatly dressed 
young clerk, with a partiality for bright-hued silken 
neckties, and the sole support of his aged parents 
and his brothers and sisters. His ruin was due to 
the elopement of his betrothed, a rich hotel-keeper's 
daughter, with a smart captain of dragoons, who 
once spent a fortnight in the town. Shortly after 
this incident Lavrosky was dismissed from his post 


200 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


for tippling, and eventually became a confirmed 
drunkard. He was a timid, wretched-looking little 
man, and when sober walked about the streets with 
his eyes glued to the ground as if overwhelmed with 
shame. Clad in rags, and with long unkempt hair 
and beard, he was just the figure to tempt people 
to run after him. It was considered a great joke 
to call out as he passed the name of the fair girl who 
had played him false and wrought his ruin. If he 
understood what they were saying his eyes sparkled, 
and he would rush furiously at the crowd, which 
thereupon quickly dispersed. But this seldom 
happened. As a rule, he heard nothing of what 
was going on around him ; it was therefore no 
wonder that the crowd, exasperated by his insen- 
sibility took to throwing mud and stones at him. 

When drunk, Lavrosky wept and talked. We 
children were fond of listening to his stories, al- 
though he made our flesh creep and our hair stand 
on end with his narration of horrible crimes which 
he said he had committed. According to his own 
account he had killed his father, brought his mother 
to the grave with grief, and murdered his brothers 
and sisters. We had no reason to disbelieve these 
awful confessions, though we were greatly puzzled 
by the fact that the poor man seemed to have had 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 


201 


several fathers ; one of whom he had pierced to the 
heart with a sword, burnt another over a slow fire, 
and thrown a third down a precipice. It was in 
vain that our elders laughed at us and told us that 
these stories existed only in Lavrosky’s imagination; 
we sympathized with the grief that had so crushed 
the poor man, and by giving a liberal interpretation 
to his allegories we came nearer understanding the 
cause of his ruined life than some of our seniors. 

Whenever we found Lavrosky asleep we looked 
searchingly into his face, watching how, even in 
his dreams, the shadow of his troubles passed 
over it ; his brow contracting, and his lips writhing 
with agony ; then he would suddenly shout “I’ll 
kill you ! ” and we ran away in all directions. 

Sometimes he got wet through with the rain 
and, in winter, almost buried in snow. He had to 
thank his fellow-outcasts, and especially the merry 
Turkevich, that the exposure did not kill him. 
Turkevich, even when he was hardly able to walk, 
would look for his friend, and when he had found 
him, wake him up and lead him to the mountains. 

This Turkevich, as he himself said, was a man 
who would not stand being put upon. Whilst the 
Professor and Lavrosky suffered passively, Turke- 
vich made the best of things and was nearly al- 


202 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


ways merry and content. One of the first things 
he did was to make himself a general, without 
asking anybody's leave, and he insisted on being 
treated with all the respect due to the rank which 
he claimed. As nobody dared say him nay, Tur- 
kevich soon became persuaded that he had a per- 
fect right to his imaginary title. He walked about 
with a soldierly step and sternly knit brows ; and 
was ready to box any one's ears at a moment's no- 
tice — the right to which he considered to be one 
of the proudest privileges of his rank. If any doubt 
as to the validity of his grade occurred to him, he 
would stop the first man whom he met in the street 
and ask him sternly : — 

“Who am I ? Come ! Tell me quickly ! ” 
“General Turkevich," the man would reply 
timidly, knowing that a different answer would 
lead to unpleasant consequences. 

Turkevich looked more dignified still. 

“All right. But mind you don't forget it ! ” he 
would say, releasing his prisoner. As Turkevich 
was very amusing and witty, knew many tricks 
and was full of anecdote, he always found listen- 
ers, some of whom were willing to stand him a 
glass in payment for his entertainment. 

This was the secret of his almost unfailing good 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 


203 

humor. One glass of spirits suffice to make him 
happy for the remainder of the day ; in fact, the 
General had imbibed so much brandy in his life- 
time, that his blood was chiefly composed of that 
liquor : and by keeping the solution up to a certain 
strength, he was enabled to see everything through 
rose-colored glasses. 

r 5, however, circumstances compelled the Gene- 
ral to practise total abstinence for a few days, he be- 
came melancholy and cowardly, a state of things 
which enabled those whom he had offended to re. 
taliate in kind. But to all their insults and jeers, 
he would answer only with hot tears and entreaties 
to be put out of his misery, as otherwise he would 
be sure to die like a dog in a ditch. In this cry 
there was a ring of despair that disarmed even his 
worst enemies, and, having no heart to hurt him, 
they left him alone. Then his mood would change, 
his face grow pale, his eyes glitter and become 
fiercely restless ; he would start to his feet, as if in a 
trance, and hurry into the street shouting: — 

“I am going! . . . Going like the prophet 
Jeremiah to denounce evil-doers.” 

At this signal, even the busiest among the trades- 
people left their work to follow in the train of the 
new prophet, and watch what they knew would 


204 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


be an interesting sight. He generally went first 
to the house of the acting secretary of the local 
court, and got up before his windows a mock sit- 
ting of the tribunal, assigning the parts of plaintiff 
and defendant to various persons in the crowd. 
This preliminary arranged, he would begin to re- 
cite their parts, as well as his own, with great flu- 
ency, mimicking their voice and manners to the 
life. As he always introduced into his comedy 
some amusing allusions to current events, the en- 
tertainment was naturally a great success, and a 
maid-servant would presently come out of the sec- 
retary’s house, slip something into Turkevich’s- 
hand, and then hurry away to avoid the unwel- 
come attentions of the General’s followers. As he 
pocketed the tip, the General would laugh trium- 
phantly, and hasten to spend it at the nearest pub- 
lic-house. He would next proceed to the houses 
of other victims, changing his repertoire according 
to circumstances, and as he received a fee for every 
performance, his voice grew more cheerful, and 
his face lost its gloom. 

The performance usually ended at the police 
superintendent’s, the meekest and most inoffensive 
official imaginable ; but he had two weaknesses : 
he dyed his hair, and was supposed to be over 
fond of his fat cook. 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 


205 

On reaching the Ispravnik's house, Turkevich 
would wink knowingly at his companions, toss his 
hat in the air, and announce in a loud voice that 
here lived not their chief merely, but his (the 
Generals) father and benefactor. 

Then he would gaze fixedly at the house await- 
ing the issue, which was always somewhat doubt- 
ful. Sometimes the front door would open at once, 
and Matrena, the cook, hurry out, bringing a pres- 
ent from the “father and benefactor.” At other 
times the latter’s angry face, framed in jet-black 
hair, would appear at one of the windows, while 
Matrena, slipping out at the back door, ran to the 
police-station for the policeman, Mikita, who, by 
frequent practice, had become very clever at man- 
aging Turkevich, and the moment he saw the cook 
knew what was expected of him. Calmly putting 
away the boot he was mending, he would haste to 
fulfil his duty. 

Meanwhile Turkevich, seeing that flattery was a 
failure, would become satirical, express regret that 
his benefactor daubed his gray hair with blacking, 
and reprove him for setting a bad example by al- 
lowing Matrena to occupy so equivocal a position 
in his household. At this point he would wax still 
more eloquent an abusive, knowing full well that 


2o6 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


a friendly reception was now past hoping for. But 
his gabble on that occasion was soon stopped. 
Mikita, quietly approaching Turkevich from behind, 
would seize the orator in his powerful arms, hoist 
him on his shoulders, and carry his prisoner away 
amid the jeers and laughter of the crowd, who had 
taken good care not to warn Turkevich of his 
danger, and, the performance over, slowly dis- 
persed. 

In addition to the characters I have described, 
the chapel harbored a number of wretched out- 
casts who, it was said, made their living by petty 
thefts ; although the only foundation for the rumor 
was the fact that they had been deprived of all 
other means of subsistence by their rivals at the 
castle. It was for this reason that the appearance 
of these vagabonds in the town never failed to 
alarm the shopkeepers. 

The captain of the band was one Tyburzy Drab, 
the strangest and most remarkable member of the 
society. 

Tyburzy's origin was obscure, his identity uncer- 
tain. Romantic people thought he was of good 
family, and that, having disgraced himself in his 
youth, he had been obliged to take an alias. He 
was also said to have been a follower of the famous 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 


207 


brigand Karmeluk ; but for that he was hardly 
old enough. 

He had rugged though expressive features, short 
sandy hair, which stood on end like the quills of 
the fretful porcupine, a prominent forehead, and a 
protruding lower jaw. Though he could distort 
his face out of recognition, and make most fearful 
grimaces, his glittering eyes, which showed malice 
and acuteness, were always the same. 

Tyburzy was tall, and his bent shoulders seemed 
to tell a tale of misery and misfortune. His hands 
were hard and horny, his feet large, and his gait 
was that of a peasant. It was because of these 
peculiarities that most people refused to accept the 
theory of his aristocratic origin, saying that, at the 
best, he could only have been servant in some noble 
family. 

To this supposition, however there was another 
objection— Tyburzy's great erudition. There was 
hardly a tavern in the town in which he had not 
recited entire orations of Cicero, or chapters of 
Xenophon, for the entertainment of the Ruthenian 
farmers, who came to town on market days. 

The peasants would listen in open-mouthed 
astonishment while the ragged orator denounced 
{he treachery of Catiline, or praised the exploits of 


2o8 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


Caesar. Ruthenians being endowed with lively 
imaginations, his hearers put their own meanings 
into these lively albeit incomprehensible speeches, 
and as Tyburzy, with tragically outstretched arms 
and glowing eyes, addressed them as Patres con^ 
scriph] they would nod their heads approvingly, 
and whisper to each other : — 

“ Deuce take him ! What a talent for abuse the 
fellow has ! ” 

And when, after such an exordium as this, he 
glared at them more fiercely than before, and began 
to declaim endless Latin sentences, his long- 
whiskered hearers followed him with rapt attention 
and intense sympathy. For it seemed to them that 
Tyburzy’s spirit had soared to regions unknown, 
where unchristian tongues are spoken, and where, 
judging from his strange gestures and contorted 
countenance, the immortal part of him was under- 
going bitter affliction. Their excitement reached 
its climax when, rolling his eyes until the whites of 
them only were visible, he intoned with hollow 
voice and energetic action, long passages from 
Virgil and Homer. It was more than they could 
stand. Unable to resist the combined influence of 
Tyburzy’s eloquence and Jewish brandy, their 
heads would drop, and as their long hair fell on 
their faces, they would sob : — 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS. 


209 

**0h, how well he does it; how pitiful he 
makes it, the scoundrel ! ” And tears would flow 
freely from their eyes, and deluge their abundant 
beards. 

No wonder that when the orator, jumping from 
his tub, burst into a peal of merry laughter, the 
beclouded faces brightened up, and horny hands, 
diving into the pockets of baggy breeches, brought 
forth many coppers. Delighted with the happy 
ending of Tyburzy’s flight into the unknown, they 
would kiss him fervently, entertain him liberally, 
and make him presents. 

In view of these surprising displays of learning 
and histrionic talent, it became necessary to start a 
theory which should fit in with the facts, and afford 
an adequate explanation of the man’s past. The 
new theory was to the effect that, in his youth. 
Tyburzy had been the serf of a Count, and was by 
him sent to the Jesuit Father s school with his son 
as the latter’s servant, and that somehow or other, 
the serf had contrived to learn everything, while 
the young Count had learnt nothing. 

Among other consequences of Tyburzy’s mysteri- 
ous learning was the ascription to him of a deep 
knowledge of occult things. Did the sorcerer’s 
sign appear in the growing grain nobody could 
T4 


210 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


pluck it off with less danger to himself and the 
reapers than Tyburzy. Did a portentous owl perch 
for several consecutive evenings on somebody’s 
roof-tree, thereby endangering the life of one or 
other of those who dwelt there, Tyburzy would be 
sent for to drive away the ill-omened bird by con- 
jurations drawn from the pages of Titus Livius. 

Another mystery related to Tyburzy’s children, 
or rather, the children who lived with him. Were 
they his or some other body’s. One was a boy of 
seven, tall and well grown for his age. This child 
had been with Tyburzy from the first ; he came 
into the neighborhood carrying him in his arms. 
The other was a little girl whom he had afterwards 
fetched — nobody knew from where, and as she had 
not been seen for a long time nobody knew what 
was become of her. The boy was dark, his name 
Valek, and he had a way of walking sullenly about 
the streets with his hands in his pockets and look- 
ing round in a way which made cautious bakers 
keep a sharp eye on their loaves and cakes. 

At times there was much talk in the town about 
the vaults under the ruined chapel, the like of which 
are to be found under most of the churches built in 
the turbulent times of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, when they were used as places of refuge. 


DOUBTFUL PERSONS, 


21 1 


It was thought that the outcasts lived there ; for 
they always made off thitherward at nightfall. 
Yet nobody could tell for certain, no man being 
bold enough to follow them. The mountain, 
which was covered with old graves, had an evil 
reputation. On dark autumnal nights, blue lights 
might be seen moving about in the chapel yard, 
and the owls in the ruined belfry hooted so fear- 
fully that even the bold unbelieving blacksmith felt 
ill at ease. 


212 


JN BAD SOCIETY, 


III. 

MY FATHER AND I. 

“ It is bad, very bad, young sir,” old Yanush, 
the steward of the castle, would say reproachfully, 
wagging his white beard, when he chanced to 
meet me in the street, following Turkevich or Ty- 
burzy. 

“ It is bad, young sir, very bad indeed. You 
are in bad society. I pity your honorable father.” 

The truth was that since my mother’s death my 
father’s grave face had grown so much sterner, 
and his manner so forbidding that home had no 
attraction for me. In summer I was out all day 
long. On returning at night I crept furtively 
through the garden, like a young wolf, desirous 
above all things to avoid meeting my father. 

My room was on the first floor, the window of’ 
it being hidden by the thick leaves of a lilac-tree. 

I could open the window from the outside by 
means of a special contrivance of my own inven- 


MV FA THER AND /. 


213 

tion. Generally, I went straight to bed, but when 
I found my little sister awake — she slept in the 
next room— we would kiss each other and play 
together for a while, taking care, however, not to 
disturb the grumbling old nurse. 

I rose with the sun, and day had hardly broken 
when my trail was marked on the long dew-laden 
grass of the garden. Climbing the fence I would 
make for the mere, where a number of fellow- 
scapegraces were waiting for me to go a-fishing, 
or to the water mill to watch the drowsy miller 
open the locks and let in the crystal water, which 
shivering sensitively would rush into the sluices 
and begin cheerfully its daily work. 

The great wooden wheels, roused by the noisy 
splashes of the water, shivered in sympathy and 
began to move lazily and reluctantly, as if they 
had been wakened too soon. To the big wheels 
followed the main shafts with a grave steady 
movement, setting in motion the pinions and spur 
wheels which made a great clatter ; then the grind- 
stones went round wheezing, and the white flour 
dust rose in clouds from the clefts in the wooden 
walls of the crazy old mill. 

Often, I went further a-field. It pleased me to 
watch the awakening of Nature. I was glad 


214 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


when I chanced to start a drowsy lark, or rouse 
from its form some timid hare. 

Drops of dew fell from the waving grass and 
the corollas^of wild flowers as I wend towards a 
little grove on the eastern outskirts of the town. 
The trees greet me with light drowsy whispers. 
As I pass the prison the pale gloomy faces of the 
convicts appear at the grated windows, the watch, 
shouldering their muskets, make the round of the 
walls, and relieve the worn-out sentinels of the 
night. 

Though I have been rambling about for some 
time, the townsfolk are not yet up ; and at every 
turn I see sleepy, half-dressed figures, opening their 
shutters. But soon the sun shows above the moun- 
tains, a brass-throated bell calling up the collegians 
is heard from the other side of the mere, and hunger 
reminds me that it is time to return home to break- 
fast. 

So many people called me a vagabond and 
thought and spoke ill of me that I ended in believ- 
ing all they said. So did my father, and after a 
while made several attempts to correct my supposed 
evil propensities and give more care to my educa- 
tion, but always unsuccessfully. At the sight of 
that stern and gloomy face, bearing the stamp of 


MV FA 7 HER AND /. 


215 

incurable grief, I became shy and reserved, and I 
stood silently before him, fingering my buttons 
and looking timidly about me. 

There were times when I felt differently, when I 
yearned for sympathy, and wished that he would 
put his arms round me, take me on his knee lay 
my head on his shoulder and weep with me over 
our common loss. But he would gaze at me 
vaguely, as if his thoughts were far away ; and 
then, sorrowful and hurt, I would shrink within 
myself, chilled by that incomprehensible look. 

‘ ‘ Do you remember your mother? ” he would ask. 

Did I remember her ! Ah, how well. I remem- 
bered long ago when I wakened in the night, seek- 
ing in the darkness her soft hands, pressing them to 
my face and covering them with kisses. I remem- 
bered when, sick and weary and wellnigh worn 
out, she sat before the open window looking on the 
beauties of the glad spring-time, which she loved 
so well and knew she should never see again. 

Ah yes, I remembered her ! . . . When covered 
with flowers, young and beautiful, she lay with the 
seal of the Destroyer on her pale brow, I crouched 
like a little wounded animal in a dark corner, 
watching her with bloodshot eyes which looked 
for the first time on the horror of death. 


2i6 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


And then, after a crowd of strangers had carried 
her away, did not my smothered sobs break the 
silence of the first night of my bereavement. 

Ah yes, I remembered her ! Even now I often 
waken up at dead of night, full of childish love and 
tenderness, longing for sympathy, a happy smile on 
my lips, in the blessed unconsciousness left by the 
rose-colored dreams of infancy. 

And often it seems to me, as in times gone by, 
that she is still with me, and I stretch out my arms 
and wait for her fond embrace. But they find only 
emptiness and gloom ; the sense of my loneliness 
cuts me to the soul. I press my hands to my beat- 
ing heart and burning tears of boyish grief rain on 
my pillow. 

Ah yes, I remembered her ! . . . But to the ques- 
tion of that tall melancholy man, w’hom I knew but 
could not feel to be my father, I could answer only 
with a blush, drooping eyes, and silence. He 
turned his head away with a gesture of pain and 
annoyance, and I withdrew my little hand from 
his unsympathizing grip 

He felt that he had no hold over me, that we 
were antipathetic and that between me and him 
were an unpassable barrier. When she was alive 
he loved her so dearly and was so absorbed in his 


MV FA THER AND /. 


217 


own happiness that he hardly ever noticed her boy. 
Now his great grief blinded him and alienated 
me. 

As time went on the abyss which separated us 
seemed to grow deeper and wider. My father 
became more and more convinced that I was a 
bad boy with an empty head and a selfish heart, 
and the conciousness that he ought to train me 
up but could not, ought to love me but did not, 
served only to intensify his irritation and increase 
his aversion for me. I knew it. 

While hidden behind a bush I used to watch him, 
as with bent head he strode up and down the 
avenue plunged in gloomy thoughts. At these 
times I pitied him deeply. Once — it vras the anni- 
versary of our mother's death — he sat down on a 
bench, and pressing his head between his hands? 
sobbed passionately. It was more than I could 
bear. I rushed from my hiding-place and would 
have tried to comfort him. But suppressing his 
emotion with a great effort he eyed me sternly and 
coldly. 

‘‘ What do you want ? ” he asked. 

I wanted nothing. Ashamed of the impulse to 
which I had yielded I turned aside, fearing that my 
father would read my feelings in my face. Then, 


2i8 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


running away to the darkest corner of the garden, 
I buried my face in the grass and wept bitter 
tears of anger and pain. At seven years old I had 
felt all the bitterness of solitude. 

My sister Sonia was in her fifth year. We loved 
each other dearly. But the accepted view of my 
character, the belief that I was a little ne’er-do- 
weel, often deprived me of the solace of her com- 
pany. Whenever I began to play with her, noisily 
and merrily as children do, the drowsy old nurse 
who with her eyes half closed was always dressing 
hens’ feathers for cushions, would straightway 
waken up, give me an angry look, take Sonia in 
her arms and hurry off. At these times the old 
body reminded me of a brooding hen, defending 
her chickens from a vulture, the vulture being, of 
course, myself. 

All this was very stupid and annoying, and in 
the end I gave up my well-meant attempts to amuse 
Sonia with my objectionable playing. After a 
while I became — not home-sick but sick of home, 
where nobody showed me the least sympathy. I 
was weary of the grumbling of the old nurse, of 
the idle whispering of the apple-trees in our gar- 
den, of the dull clatter of pans in the kitchen, and 
knives mincing meat. 


MV FATHER AND /. 


219 

So it came to pass that I spent nearly all my time 
time out-of-doors ; a habit which brought me into 
still worse repute, and I was looked upon as being 
no better than a street boy and a vagabond. But 
I was so much accustomed to abuse and reviling, 
that I heeded them no more than a passing shower 
of rain, or any other freak of the weather. I lis- 
tened in silence and went on as before. 

Wandering about the streets and roads, I ob- 
served with childish curiosity the simple life of the 
country folk. I listened excitedly to the hum of 
the telegraph wires by the wayside and wondered 
what they were saying. I thought I could hear 
the voice of men in the whispering of the grass on 
the hillsides, sacred to the memory of the ancient 
defenders of the land. Often I was painfully af- 
fected by the glimpses I obtained of the drama of 
human life, for I had come to know many things 
which are usually hidden from children much older 
than myself. 

When the vixens at the castle had shorn it of its 
former halo of romance, and every nook in the 
town had become as familiar to me as the lines on 
my hand, I began to cast wistful glances towards the 
ruined chapel, whose crumbling walls were faintly 
visible in the mountains. After a while I ventured 


220 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


to reconnoitre it from various points of view, and 
at a respectful distance, for the mountain was sup- 
posed to be haunted and had a bad name. But as 
I saw nothing more alarming than quiet graves 
and broken crosses, I grew bolder, and drawing 
nearer made a closer inspection. Nowhere could 
I detect a sign of human presence. All was peace, 
and the place looked as calm as a summer s day. 
Only the chapel, with its unglazed windows and 
drooping moss-grown roof seemed sad and pen- 
sive, as if it had something on its mind. And now 
I longed to look inside and see whether it contained 
aught but dust and was as peaceful as it looked. 
Yet I lacked the courage to undertake alone so 
daring an enterprise. Moreover, I could not very 
well get inside without help. So I engaged a 
small bodyguard of three streetboys to accompany 
me, tempting them with offers of apples from my 
father’s garden, 


I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


221 


IV. 

I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 

We set out on our journey one afternoon, and 
reaching the foot of the mountain without misad- 
venture began the ascent of its steep sides, by one 
of the ravines, made partly by the rain, partly by 
the spades of people who had once dug clay there. 
As we go up we see, here and there, white bones 
protruding from the earth. In one place the corner 
of a coffin is distinctly visible. In another a human 
skull grins at us a ghastly smile and fixes us with 
his black eyeholes. 

At length, keeping well together and giving each 
other an occasional leg up, we reached the edge of 
the last ravine, and presently find ourselves on the 
mountain top. 

The sun was beginning to set. His oblique rays 
shone brightly on the green sward of the old ceme- 
tery, and illumined with rainbow-like colors the few 
remaining windows of the ruined chapel. Deep- 
est silence prevailed, and perfect peace and quiet- 


222 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


ness brooded over the deserted churchyard. No- 
where could be seen bones or skulls or other relics 
of mortality. The fresh green grass hid from us 
lovingly in its soft embrace the horror and ugliness 
of death. 

We were alone. Only sparrows were chirping 
merrily around, while swallows flew in and out of 
the chapel windows. 

“There is not a soul about the place ; said one 
of my companions. 

“The sun is going down ; observed another, 
pointing to the “ruler of the day,’' who was dip- 
ping towards the edge of mountain. 

It was evident that if we were to go inside we 
had no time to lose. But the chapel door w’as nailed 
up, and the windows were above our heads. Never- 
theless it seemed possible, by standing on each 
other’s shoulders, to reach one of them and look 
inside. 

“ Shall we try ? ” I asked. 

“No, let us go home,” quavered one of my com- 
rades, who, now that it was come to the point, had 
lost his courage. 

“Go if you like, you coward,” exclaimed the 
eldest of our little band. And with that he offered 
me his back. 


/ MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


223 

Willingly accepting his help, I climbed boldly 
up, and stood on his shoulders. From this point of 
vantage I could easily reach the window, and, 
having tested its solidity, I raised myself up, and, 
holding on by one of the sides, sat down on the 
sill. 

Well what do you see ? ” asked my comrades 
excitedly, as they stared up at me open-mouthed. 

I was silent. Leaning forward I gazed intently 
at the majestic ruins. The walls of the high, nar- 
row temple were quite bare and devoid of orna- 
ment. The rays of the setting sun, streaming in 
through the open windows, painted with golden 
arabesques the dilapidated walls. I could see the 
inner side of the great nailed door, the ruined gal- 
lery, and the old wooden columns, which seemed 
to totter under their heavy burden. The corners 
were covered with cobwebs and filled with the 
strange darkness which so often nestles in old 
buildings. The height from the window to the 
floor appeared to be much greater than from the 
window to the ground outside. It seemed as if I 
were looking into a deep pit, and for some time I 
could not distinguish the strange objects which 
cumbered the floor. 

Meanwhile my companions, tired of waiting for 


224 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


my revelations, hoisted to the window one of the 
three. I gave him a hand up, and he took his 
place beside me. 

“That is the altar,” he said, pointing to a nonde- 
script object under our feet. 

“And that must be the church lustre,” said I. 

“And see ! the little pulpit for the Gospel.” 

“But what can that be — on the floor, there?” 

“The priest’s hat, of course.” 

“No ; it is a pail.” 

“ Nonsense ! They don’t have pails in churches. ” 

“It might be to keep coal in for the censer.” 

“I am sure it is a hat. Anyhow, we can go and 
look. ^See, I will fasten the straps to the window 
sash and let you down. What do you say ? ” 

“Thank you very much. Not if I know it. Go 
yourself ! ” 

“Do you think I dare not?” 

Without waiting for an answer I tied my two 
straps firmly together, passed them round the sash, 
and giving one end to my friend let myself slowly 
down, hand under hand. As my feet neared the floor 
I gave an involuntary shiver, but a sympathetic 
nod from my companion, who was looking down 
from the window, restored my courage, and I 
dropped lightly on the rotten boards. The sound 


/ MAJCE A NEIV ACQC/AINTANCE, 225 

of my footsteps roused a ghostly echo which, after 
reverberating in the depths below, died away in the 
dark corners of the chapel. Several sparrows that 
were perched on the gallery took wing and flew 
through the windows. 

Glancing upward, I saw looking down on me 
from above the altar, a stern bearded face and a 
head crowned with thorns. It was the figure of 
Christ on the great crucifix. 

I was deeply awed and not a little afraid, but 
being under the eye of my companion, and as those 
outside were impatiently awaiting the issue of the 
adventure, I felt that I must stand to my guns. 

“Will you go on ? ” he asked. 

“ Of course I will,” I said, putting a boldface on 
it and speaking a good deal more confidently than 
I felt. “Of course I will.” 

But the very same instant something happened 
which made my blood run cold in my veins and 
my courage run out at my finger ends. First of all, 
a noise in the gallery, as of falling plaster, followed 
by a cloud of dust, and a great .gray creature with 
huge wings, that darkened the air, hovered for a 
moment over my head, and then flew through a 
hole in the roof. 

“ Help me up ! Help me up 1 I shouted to my 
comrade. 15 


226 


m BAD SOCIETY, 


“There is nothing to be afraid of ; it is only an 
owl,” he said soothingly. 

All the same he began to haul at the straps, 
but before I had reached the window, his face 
became distorted as with sudden fear, he uttered an 
ear-splitting shriek, the strap slipped from his 
hands, and as I dropped back on the floor he dis- 
appeared from the window. 

Looking round I discerned the cause of my 
friend's alarm. It was certainly very uncanny, 
though at the moment it struck me as being more 
curious than terrifying. 

The thing we had been talking about, which he 
had taken for a pail and I for a hat, but which 
proved to be a pot, was moving, and even while I 
looked at it vanished under the altar, drawn thither 
by a small childish hand whose vague outline I 
could just distinguish. 

What I felt it were hard to say. Unquestionably 
I was badly frightened ; but it was not ordinary 
fear. It seemed to me that I had got into another 
world — probably the nether world. From the out- 
side world, which I had just left and whither I saw 
no way of returning, I heard for a few moments 
the hurried trample of retreating footsteps. But 
soon all was still. I was alone, as in a tomb, 
amid things strange, weird, and ghostlike. 


/ MAJCE A NEW A CQ UAINTANCE. 227 

Time appeared to stand still, which was probably 
the reason why I could not tell how long I had 
been standing, transfixed to the floor, when I heard 
the suppressed whispering of what sounded like 
human voices. 

‘ ‘ Why does not he go back ? ” 

Don’t you see ? He is frightened.” 

The first voice seemed to be that of a little child, 
the other, the voice of a boy of my own age ; and 
I fancied that I saw a pair of dark eyes gleaming 
through a cleft in the old altar. 

“ What will he do next? ” asked the first voice. 

“That is what we shall see,” answered the 
other. 

Then there was a sound of rustling under the 
altar, which appeared to move a little, and the next 
moment there emerged from it a human figure. 

It was the figure of a boy of some nine years 
old, but taller than I, and spare and slim, like a 
reed. He wore a dirty shirt and short trousers, in 
the pockets of which he kept his hands, and dark 
crisp hair hung like a crown over his black pensive 
eyes. 

Albeit the youngster who appeared on the scene 
so strangely and in such questionable guise, walked 
up to me in that pugnacious and provoking manner 


228 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


which among street boys is generally regarded as 
equivalent to a declaration of war, I felt greatly 
relieved ; and when there emerged from the hole 
under the altar another dirty little face, framed in 
flaxen curls, and lighted up with a pair of sky-blue 
eyes, all my courage returned aad Richard was 
himself again. I moved a step from the wall and, 
according to the knightly etiquette of the streets, 
also put my hands in my pockets. This meant 
that I was not only not afraid of my adversary but 
even felt a little contempt for him. 

We stood face to face, regarding each other 
defiantly. 

“Why are you come here ? ” asked the boy, after 
he had scanned me from head to foot. 

' ‘ Because ? . . . What is it to you ? ” I answered. 
My adversary, raising his left shoulder, turned 
towards me sideways, and drew from his pocket 
his clenched fist. 

I did not flinch. 

“I will show you what it is to me,” he said 
menacingly. 

“ All right ! Try ! ” I exclaimed, putting myself 
in an attitude of defence. 

It was a critical moment, for on our present 
conduct depended our future relations. But my 


I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, 


229 

man, though he continued to look at me defiantly, 
did not come on. 

Oh, I know how to fight,’' I said, though in a 
more conciliatory tone than before. 

Meanwhile the girl, having emerged entirely 
from the hole, came forward trembling, and clasp- 
ing the boy's knees regarded me with surprised and 
frightened eye. 

This decided the issue of the unequal contest. 
It was obvious that a boy so encumbered would 
fight under great disadvantage, and I was too 
generous to profit by his difficulty. 

“What is your name?" he asked, as he toyed 
with the girl's flaxen curls. 

“ Vasio, and yours ? " 

“Valek, I know you. You live in the house 
over the mere. You have big apples.” 

“You are right : and they are both big and good. 
Will you try one? " 

I took from my pocket two of the apples, with 
which I had intended to reward my runaway army, 
and offered it to Valek, the other to the girl. 

“She is afraid," he explained, and taking one 
of the apples put it into the child's hand. 

“ Why are you come here? "he asked again. 
“ Do I ever come into your garden ? " 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


230 

You may; I shall be glad to see you,” I said 
cordially. 

This reply seemed to surprise Valek greatly, 
“lam not fit company for the like of you,” he 
returned sadly. 

There was something in his manner and the 
despondent tone of his voice which grieved me. 

“ Why ? ” I demanded. 

“ Your father is a judge.” 

“What of that” quoth I, with unaffected sur- 
prise. “ What of that ? it is me you will play with, 
not my father.” 

Valek shook his head. 

“ Tyburzy won't let me come,” he said; and 
then, as if the mention of this name reminded him 
of something he had forgotten, added hurriedly, 
“ Look here ! you are a good lad, but you had better 
go. If Tyburzy finds you here it will be bad 
for you.” 

I was of the same opinion. At any rate, I felt 
that it was quite time for me to go. The sun was 
setting and I had a longish walk before me. 

“But how am I to get out ? ” 

“I will show you the way. We will go to- 
gether. ” 

“And she?” I asked, pointing to the girl. 


/ MAITE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, 


231 


‘‘ Marusia ? Oh, she shall go with us.” 

“ Here ! Through the window ? ” 

Valek thought for a minute. 

“No. This is what we must do. I will help 
you through the window and we will go another 
way. 

No sooner said than done. With the help of my 
new friend I climbed up to the window. Then, 
passing my straps round the sash and holding both 
ends in my hands, I descended a fcv\" feet, when 
letting one end go I dropped the remainder of the 
distance and landed safely on the grass, where I 
found Valek and Marusia waiting for me hand in 
hand, for the girl required help. 

By this time the sun was out of sight and the 
town shrouded in a mist of violet shadows. Only 
the tops of the tall poplars on the island were shin- 
ing like gold, richly dipt with the last rays of the 
declining sun, now hidden from us by the moun- 
tain. 

It seemed to me that I had been there a long 
time ; and that at least a day had passed since I 
entered the old churchyard. 

“ How nice it is here ! ” I exclaimed, filling my 
lungs with the fresh evening air. 

“ It is so lonesome,” observed Valek sadly. 


232 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


“Do you live up here ? ” I inquired as we began 
our descent of the mountain. 

“Yes. 

“And where is your house 

I was unable to realize that children like myself 
could live elsewhere than in a house. 

Valek smiled his usual pensive smile, but an- 
swered nothing. 

We did not go down the mountain by the ravines, 
up which my companions and myself had climbed 
with so much difficulty. Valek knew a better way. 
After passing the thicket of reeds which grew on 
the dried-up marsh, we crossed the stream by a 
fragile plank bridge and so reached the outskirts of 
the town. 

Here we had to part company. I shook hands 
with my new friend. The girl also proffered her 
tiny hand, and looking up at me, said : — 

“ Will you come to us again ? ” 

“Yes — certainly — by all means — if you wish 
it," I answered. 

“Well, come — if you please," Valek observed, 
after a moment’s thought. “But you must choose 
your time — come only when you know that our 
people are in the town." 

“What people ? Who do you mean ?” 


I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


233 

*‘A11 of them— Tyburzy, Lavrosky, Turkevich, 
the Professor. But never mind about the Professor^ 
no fear of him disturbing us.” 

‘‘Very well. I will make a round of inspection, 
and when I find they are all in the town I’ll look 
you up. And now, farewell.” 

“ Look here ; ” shouted Valek, when I had gone 
a few steps. “ Look here ; You won’t blab about 
what you saw up there ? ” 

“You may trust me. I won’t tell a soul,” I an- 
swered resolutely. “Good! And say to those 
fools who came with you — if, as they are sure to 
do, they pester you with questions — say that you 
have seen Old Nick.” 

“ Certainly. ” 

“Now, good-bye I ” 

“ Good-bye.” 

It was dark when I got to our garden fence, over 
which, when I came home late, I generally climbed. 
The sickle-shaped moon hung over the earth, and 
the stars shone brightly in the purple sky. All was 
still, the coast appeared to be clear, and I was on 
the point of getting over the fence, when some- 
body seized me by the hand. 

“Vasio, dear Vasio I You are alive and safely 
back! I am so glad,” whispered excitedly one of 
my fugitive comrades. 


234 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


“ Well, you may be. But I was not glad when 
you ran away and left me.” 

He cast down his eyes ; but curiosity getting the 
better of shame, he put the question which he was 
dying to ask : — 

“Well, now you are alive, tell me what it 
was ? ” 

“What was it?” I said, mimicking him. And 
then in a tone which admitted of no doubt, I added : 
“It was the devil, of course, and you are all cow- 
ards. ” 

And without vouchsafing any further explana- 
tion, I went my way. 

Twenty minutes later, I was fast asleep. 

In my dreams that night, I really saw a number 
of little black devils hopping briskly out of the hole 
under the altar, while Valek, armed with a willow 
wand, chased them round and round, thereby greatly 
amusing Marusia, who laughed merrily at the sport 
and clapped her hands in childish glee. 


THE ACQUAINTANCE IS IMPROVED, 


235 


V. 

THE ACQUAINTANCE IS IMPROVED. 

My newly made friends quite absorbed me. My 
last thought when I went to bed at night, my first 
thought when I woke up in the morning were of 
my memorable visit to the lone chapel on the moun- 
tain. I rambled about the town with the sole ob- 
ject of ascertaining the whereabouts of the outcast 
community. If Lavrosky lay stretched in the mud, 
if Turkevich and Tyburzy were brawling at some 
street corner or tippling in some tavern, and sus- 
picious-looking ruffians prowling about the market- 
place, I ran across the marsh, and made in all haste 
for the mountain — having first filled my pockets 
with my father's apples and sweets, which I had 
saved up for the children of the chapel. 

Valek, a staid, serious boy, who dominated me 
with his gravity and grown-up” ways, received 
these presents simply and carelessly — usually put- 
ting them aside for his little sister. But Marusia's 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


236 

face always kindled with unrestrained joy, her pale 
cheeks glowed, and she made our hearts merry with 
the peals of her childish laughter. 

She was a wee, white-faced creature, and re- 
minded one of a flower which has grown up with- 
out sunshine. Though nearly five years old, she 
walked with difficulty, tottering on her crooked feet 
like a blade of grass shaking in the wind. Her tiny 
hands were thin and transparent ; her head oscil- 
lated on her little shoulders like the corolla of a 
blue-bell ; yet, there were times when Marusia’s 
eyes bespoke an unchildish gravity, and her smile 
recalled my mother's in her last illness, when she 
sat before the open window. 

I involuntarily compared Marusia with my sis- 
ter. There was little difference in their years, but 
Sonia was fat, plump, and elastic, like an india- 
rubber ball. She was fond of running and romp- 
ing, too, had a merry laugh, and wore pretty gowns. 
Every morning one of the maids plaited her black 
hair with a red ribbon. As for my little friend, 
Marusia, she never ran, had probably never romped 
in her life, and seldom laughed. And, when she 
did, her laughter was low and sweet, like the tink- 
ling of a tiny silver bell. Her frock was old and 
dirty, and there were no ribbons in her hair. On 


THE ACQUAINTANCE IS IMPROVED. 237 

the other hand, her tresses were more beautiful 
and abundant than Sonia’s and, to my surprise, 
Valek knew^ how to dress them prettily, and ar- 
ranged them every morning. 

At that time I was a regular madcap. “That 
boy’s limbs are filled with quicksilver,” my elders 
used to say. And I quite believed them, though 
how and by whom the operation was per- 
formed, passed my comprehension. From the be- 
ginning of our acquaintance, I imparted to my re- 
lations with Valek and Marusia something of my 
own liveliness. I doubt whether the old vaults be- 
neath the chapel had ever echoed to such loud 
shouts, as those with which I tried to rouse the 
brother and sister from their sadness and apathy, 
and make them play with me. But those well- 
meant efforts met with scant success. Valek’s face 
refused to smile. When I would have Marusia try 
to run, he said : — 

“Let her alone. If you don’t, she will cry.” 

In fact, when she was at length persuaded to 
use her legs, and I ran after her, the poor child 
stopped short and turned round, and raising her 
hands as if to shield her head, gave me a look like 
that of a bird caught in a trap, and burst into tears 
to my great distress. 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


238 

“ I told you how it would be/’ saidValek; **she 
does not like playing.” 

Then we made her sit on the grass, and gathered 
wild flowers for her. Soon she stopped crying and 
amused herself with the flowers, kissing the blue- 
bells, and talking in whispers to the golden butter- 
cups. But the incident had damped my spirits, 
and made me thoughtful. 

^‘Why is she always so?”— I asked Valek in an 
undertone, indicating Marusia with my eyes. 

“Lifeless? It is because of the Gray Stone,” 
answered the lad with an air of grave conviction. 

“Yes,” repeated the child in her melodious voice ; 
“it is because of the Gray Stone.” 

“ What Gray Stone? ” I asked wondering. 

“The Gray Stone which has sucked the life out 
of her,” explained Valek, looking vacantly before 
him. “So at least says Tyburzy, and Tyburzy 
knows everything.” 

“Y — yes,” again echoed the melodious voice; 
“Tyburzy knows everything.” 

I could not understand the meaning of these 
mysterious words, which Valek quoted from Ty- 
burzy ; but the assumption that they must be true 
because he said so, and that Tyburzy knew every- 
thing impressed me deeply. Raising myself on 


THE ACQUAINTANCE IS IMPROVED. 239 

my elbow (we were lying on the grass) I regarded 
Marusia attentively. She was sitting where Valek 
had placed her, and still playing with the flowers. 
The movements of the tiny hands were slow, and 
the long eyelashes almost touched her pale cheeks. 

As I looked at that sickly diminutive figure I 
felt that, though I understood them not, there 
must be some bitter truth hidden in Tyburzy’s 
words. Somebody or something had undoubtedly 
sucked the life out of this strange child who cried 
when other children laughed. But what had the 
Gray Stone to do with it ? " 

For me it was a mystery far stranger and more 
awesome than that of the old castle. Though the 
stories of Turkish skeletons upholding the island, 
and of the old count who came out of his grave 
on stormy nights, were sufficiently horrible, there 
was in them something of the fantastic unreality 
of a fairy tale. But here were facts, palpable and 
terribly real. Something formless, hard, pitiless, 
and cruel was pressing on that frail body, sucking 
out of it the bloom of health, the lustre of the eyes 
and the vivacity of youth. 

^‘It must be done at nights,” I said to myself 
and a sense of deepest pity took possession of my 
heart, and damped the natural buoyancy of my 


240 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


spirits. Conforming ourselves to the quiet ways 
of the little maid, Valek and I played gently, and 
while she sat on the grass brought her flowers, 
colored pebbles and bright winged insects. Some- 
times as we lay stretched by her side we would 
watch the clouds floating over the cross of the old 
chapel, or tell the child stories, or talk as the 
spirit moved us. 

This intercourse united Valek and myself in the 
bonds of a close friendship which strengthened 
every day, notwithstanding the disparity of our 
characters and the difference in our social posi- 
tions. To my high spirits and impulsive ways he 
opposed thoughtful gravity and a self-contained 
manner, winning my respectful admiration by his 
authoritative tone and the freedom of his com- 
ments on grown-up people. Moreover, for a boy 
of his age, Valek had a large experience, and told 
me many things of which I had never dreamed 
of. 

Once, hearing him speak of Tyburzy with the 
freedom of an equal, I asked whether the man 
were not his father. 

“Yes, I suppose he is,” was the answer. 

“Does he love you ? ” 

“lam sure he does,” said the lad positively. 


THE A CQ UAINTANCE IS IMPRO VED. 2 4 1 

“ He always takes care of me ; and, do you know, 
he sometimes kisses me and cries.” 

“And he loves me also and cries,” put in Maru- 
sia with childish pride. 

“And my father does not love me at all,” I said 
despondently. “He never kisses me; he is not 
good to me. ” 

“Is not he?” exclaimed Valek with a look of 
surprise. “And yet Tyburzy thinks very highly of 
your father, and praises him as he praises no other 
man, and he knows everything, Tyburzy does. 
He says that your father is the best man in the 
town. He says that but for him, and the priest, 
who was lately interdicted, and the Jewish rabbi, 
the town would long ago have been destroyed by 
a rain of fire and brimstone. It is only for the 
sake of those three, he says, that it is not.” 

“Why for the sake of those three ? ” 

“But for them the town would be reduced to 
ashes. So, at any rate, says Tyburzy, and he 
knows. They alone stand up for poor people's 
rights. Do you know that your father once decided 
a case against a real count ? ” 

“Yes, it is quite true. The count was very an- 
gry ; I heard him storming and complaining.” 

16 


242 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


“Well, a man must have courage to withstand 
a count.” 

“Why?” 

“What a question!” exclaimed Valek. “Be- 
cause a count is a count ; he does what he likes, 
drives in a carriage and has other people’s money. 
Do you think any other judge, if he had been 
offered money, would have scrupled to condemn 
the great man’s adversary, who was poor ? ” 

“Yes, I heard the count shout in the court- 
house : ‘ I can buy you all, and sell you again.’” 

“And your father, what said he?” 

“ He bade him go I ‘ Begone 1 ’ he said.” 

“Did he really ? There is a man for you I And 
do you know that when old Ivaniska came before 
him on her crutches, he told them to bring her a 
chair, and made her sit down, while all the others 
had to stand. Yes, he is a man. Even Turkevich 
never makes scandals before the judge’s windows.” 

This was true. My father was the only func- 
tionary in whose favor Turkevich made an excep- 
tion. 

Valek’s remarks gave me food for thought, and I 
thought earnestly. He put my father’s character 
in a new light. His remarks gratified my filial 
pride. I was pleased to hear my father praised on 


THE ACQUAINTANCE IS IMPROVED. 243 

the authority of Tyburzy, who knew everything, 
and there arose in my heart a feeling to which I 
had long been a stranger, a feeling of deep love 
for my father, mingled, however, with the bitter 
consciousness that he did not love me, and never 
would love me, as Tyburzy loved Valek and 
Marusia, 


244 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


VI. 

AMONG GRAY STONES. 

A WEEK passed away. For three days none of 
the outcast community had appeared in the tow’n. 
I sought them continually without success, and 
to my bitter disappointment I was compelled to 
discontinue my visits to the mountain. The Pro- 
fessor was hanging about as usual, but of Turke- 
vitch and Tyburzy nothing could be seen. This 
made me feel miserable ; the society of the two 
waifs had become a necessity to me. But on the 
evening of the third day, as I sauntered listlessly 
and in low spirits through the dirty streets, a hand 
was laid on my shoulder. 

‘‘ Valek ! ” I exclaimed turning round. 

‘'Why have you dropped coming.?” he asked. 

“ I dared not. Your people did not show dp in 
the town.” 

“ Oh, that is the reason 1 Well, the fault is mine, 
I forgot to tell you that our people are gone some- 


/ 


AMONG GRAY STONES. 245 

where else. You may come freely. ... I thought 
it was perhaps something else." 

“What else?" 

“ I thought you might be growing tired of us." 

“Not at all. I will go with you now. I have 
even been keeping some apples ready in my 
pocket." 

At the mention of apples Valek made as if he 
had something to tell me. But taking, as it 
seemed, another thought he merely looked at me 
strangely, and then, seeing that I was waiting for 
him to speak, observed carelessly : — 

“It is nothing. You set off, — I will overtake 
you. — I have somebody to see here on business." 

I went slowly, looking back every few minutes. 
But Valek did not appear, and even when I reached 
the chapel there was no sign of his coming. This 
put me in a fix, for without Valek I knew not whither 
to go or how to find his sister. There was nothing 
for it but to wait. To while away the time I wan- 
dered among the graves, trying to read the half 
obliterated inscriptions on the mossy tombstones, 
One of these took my attention particularly. It 
belonged to a large family vault. The upper 
stones had been torn away, probably by the wind, 
and lay on the grass. The door, however, was 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


246 

nailed up. Being curious to know the reason, and 
what, if anything, was inside, I reared an old cross 
against the broken wall and climbing up looked 
over. So far as I could see, the inclosure contained 
nothing whatever. But in the bottom of it was 
fixed a common glazed window frame, through 
which gaped the sombre emptiness of the vaulted 
tomb. 

As I looked into the narrow fold, wondering 
what use a window could be in such a place as 
that, I heard a noise, and looking round saw Valek 
running towards me. He seemed tired and his 
face was covered with sweat. In one of his hands 
he carried a large white loaf, and there was some- 
thing hidden under his coat. 

“So you have discovered it at last ! ” he exclaimed 
with a laugh. “ If Tyburzy had caught you there, 
he would have been angry, and no mistake. But 
you are a good fellow and won’t blab. Come 
along! I will show you where we live.” 

“Is it far? ” I asked. 

“You will soon see. Come ! ” 

Pushing aside a large lilac bush Valek disap- 
peared among the greenery at the base of the 
chapel. Following him quickly I found myself in 
a small well-trodden circular space almost sur- 


AMO^G GRA Y STONES. 


247 

rounded by blackberry bushes. In the middle of 
it was a dark hole with steps like the entrance to a 
cellar. 

Valek, beckoning me to follow him, went down, 
In a few seconds we were underground and in 
utter darkness. Giving me his hand, my com- 
panion led me by a damp narrow passage for a 
considerable distance, when, turning abruptly to 
the right, he shoved me into a spacious cavern or 
cellar. 

I stopped at the entrance, struck by the unusual 
sight. The cavern was lighted by two skylights 
one of which I had just discovered, the second, 
like the first, being a window let in to the floor of 
a vault. From each of these windows was pouring 
down a column of light, which contrasted strangely 
with the sombre background of the cavern, once a 
great burial vault but now cleared of its ghastly 
relics. The flooring and the walls were of stone. 
At each corner was a stout stone pillar, supporting 
a massive arched roof. Beneath the skylights 
were sitting two human shapes. One of them was 
the Professor, mending his rags with a darning 
needle. He did not so much as raise his head to 
look at us, and but for the automatic movement of 
his hands might have been mistaken for a stone 
statue. 


248 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


Under the other skylight sat Marusia, with her 
lap full of wild flowers, in a flood of light stream- 
ing from above on her pallid face and flaxen hair, 
and looking like a small bright spot or vanishing 
shadow in a wilderness of gray stone. When the 
sun was hidden for a few seconds by a passing 
cloud the cavern darkened, and the sombre abode 
seemed to widen and expand. But the next mo- 
ment the hard cold walls and pillars would stand 
out as grimly as before, as if intent on crushing 
under their unbreakable embrace the fragile figure 
of the little girl. 

Involuntarily I thought of Valek’s saying about 
the Gray Stone sucking out Marusia’s life. It 
seemed to me as if I were in the monster’s very 
presence. He touched me with his cold invisible 
hands and glared at me from the corners of the 
cavern with his cruel sightless eyes. 

“ Valek I ” exclaimed Marusia in a voice which 
showed how dearly she loved him. 

When she saw me her face brightened a little. I 
offered her a couple of apples, and Valek, breaking 
the roll which he had brought from the village, 
gave one piece to her and another to the Professor. 
The poor scholar began munching it without inter- 
mitting his work. 


AMONG GRA Y STONES, 


249 


It was all very strange, and I began to feel 
uneasy under the oppressive influence of the Gray 
Stone. 

“Let us leave them!” I whispered, pulling 
Valek’s sleeve. 

“ Shall we go upstairs, Marusia ? ” asked the boy 
of his sister, whereupon we all three left the vault. 
But even in the open air I could not shake off the 
uneasy feeling which oppressed me ; and Valek 
was more serious and silent than usual. 

“You stayed behind to buy bread, I suppose?” 
I inquired. 

“To buy?” he answered with a laugh. “With 
whose money, I should like to know ? ” 

“ How then ? Somebody gave it you probably ? ” 

“ You are very sharp. Do you think any of the 
townsfolk would give bread to the like of me ? 
No, my friend. I helped myself to the loaf at the 
baker's stall, when the baker’s back was turned.” 

This was said very quietly, and without the least 
show of shame, Valek the while lying on the turf 
with his hands under his head. Turning round, I 
looked him full in the face. 

“Then you stole the loaf?” 

“ Of course.” 

I was quite disconcerted, and for a minute 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


250 

neither of us spoke. I was the first to break 
silence : , 

“It is wrong to steal,” I said sadly. 

“Our people were all gone, and Marusia was 
crying with hunger.” 

“Yes, Marusia was crying,” repeated the child ; 

I had never known what it was to hunger, but 
Marusia s words made me feel as I had never felt 
before, and I looked at my friends as if I saw them 
for the first time, Valek was still stretched on his 
back, watching a hawk as it soared in the sky. 
At this moment I did not admire him as I had done 
previously, and when I looked at Marusia my 
heart ached. 

“ Why did not you mention this to me.?” I said 
with an effort. “Why did not you say you were 
hungry ? ” 

“I did think of it, but I changed my mind. 
It would not have helped matters. I knew you 
had no money of your own.” 

“Never mind that. I could have got you bread 
from the house.” 

“ How — secretly ? ” 

“ Why — yes. ” 

‘ ‘ But would not that be stealing ? ” 

“ Nothing of the sort. It is all my father’s. 


AMONG GJ^AY STONES. 


251 

^‘So much the worse. I never steal from my 
father.” 

“ I could have asked. I am sure they would not 
have refused me.” 

“ Perhaps not — for once. But your people can- 
not keep all the beggars.” 

“Are you — beggars?” I demanded in a vofce 
which must have betrayed my dismay. 

“Yes, beggars ! ” Valek said surlily. 

I remained silent for a few minutes, and then 
rose to take my leave. 

“Going already ? ” asked Valek. 

“Yes, I am going.” 

I was going because I could no longer play with 
my friends and retain my former serenity of mind. 
My pure childish attachment to them had received 
a rude shock. It was not that my love for Ma- 
rusia and Valek was lessened, but it had become 
complicated with a sense of pity so intense as to 
be almost pain. 

I went to bed early, because I knew not where 
to put this new feeling which troubled my peace. 
I cried bitterly, hiding my face on the pillow until 
consoling sleep came to my aid, and made me 
oblivious to my grief. 


252 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


VIL 

TYBURZY APPEARS ON THE SCENE. 

“Hullo ! I thought you did not mean to come 
here again/’ were the words with which Valek 
greeted me on the following day when I went to 
the mountain once more, words whose signifi- 
cance I fully understood. 

“ No. I shall always come to you,’' I said 
resolutely; “so let us have done with this once 
for all.” 

On this Valek’s face brightened, and we both 
felt more ac ease. 

“Well, how about your people?” I asked. 
“Not back yet? ” 

“Not yet : the deuce take them.” 

After this we amused ourselves by catching 
sparrows under a riddle, or rather an old box, which, 
as also a supply of barley and sufficient length of 
twine, I had brought with me. Marusia worked 
the trap. When some adventurous sparrow, al- 


TYBURZY APPEARS ON THE SCENE. 253 

lured by the barley, hopped under the box, she 
would pull the string and catch him — only, how- 
ever, to set him free a minute afterwards. 

We were so intent on this sport that we did not 
notice that dark clouds were gathering over our 
heads, and the first signs of an impending storm 
which we perceived were heavy drops of rain and 
a loud peal of thunder. 

We had to seek instant shelter somewhere, and 
though I hated the cavern, I thought as Marusia 
and Valek lived there it was good enough for me, 
and so, overcoming my repugnance, I went down 
with^ them. The place was very dark and very 
quiet, only the peals of thunder sounded like the 
rumbling of a gigantic car on a paved road. 

Soon I felt more at home ; but the thunder and 
lightning, the pattering of rain, and the swish of 
running water — all these unusual sounds produced 
in us a state of nervous excitement which demanded 
an outlet. 

I proposed 'a game of blind-man’s-buff, and 
Valek, acquiescing, fastened a bandage over my 
eyes. Marusia was laughing with her fay-like 
laughter, and moving slowly about on her poor 
weak legs ; myself the while making believe that 
I could not catch her ; when I suddenly ran against 


Ill BAD SOCIETY, 


254 

something big and damp, and felt myself seized by 
the leg. The next moment I was hanging head 
downwards, the bandage fell from my eyes, and 1 
saw Tyburzy, wet and angry, and appearing all the 
more terrible that I was compelled to look at him 
from below. 

“What does this mean, Valek ? ” he asked sternly. 

“You spend your time pleasantly here, young 
gentleman, and, as I see, irrgood company."" 

“Let me down ! Let me down ! ” I screamed, 
rather wondering that I was able to speak at all in 
such a position. 

But Tyburzy only tightened his grasp. 

“ Respondef Answer ! ” he asked Valek angrily. 
But the only answer the lad made was to put two 
of his fingers in his mouth, thereby signifying that 
he had nothing to tell. 

Tyburzy lifted me up. 

“Your worship, if my eyes don’t deceive me ! ” 
he said sarcastically. ^ ‘ Pray what has induced you 
to honor my humble abode with your presence ? ” 

“ Let me down ! Let me down ! ” I repeated, 
with a kick in the air which in other circumstances 
would have been an angry stamp of my foot on the 
floor. 

Tyburzy laughed loudly. 


TYBURZY ARREARS ON THE SCENE, 255 

“You are losing your temper, young sir. But 
you don’t know me, or what is in store for you. 
Ego, Tyburzy, sum, I will hang you by the legs 
over the fire and roast you like a fowl, that is what 
I will do.” 

Valek looked so horror-struck that I really feared 
Tyburzy would carry out his threat, and he might 
have done it had not Marusia interceded for 
me. 

“Don’t be frightened, Vasio,” she piped, tod- 
dling to her father’s feet. “ He never roasts boys 
over the fire. It is not true.” 

By a rapid movement, Tyburzy turned me the 
right side up and set me on my legs. But the blood 
had rushed to my head ; and I was so giddy that 
without his support I should have fallen. Sitting 
down on a wooden block he took me between his 
knees. 

“How did you come here?” he demanded 
roughly. “ Have you two been long acquaint- 
ed ? ” Then seeing that I was not disposed to 
answer, he turned to Valek, repeated the question, 
and bade him speak out. 

“ Yes, we have,” said the lad. 

“ How long ? ” 

“Ten days.” 


256 IN BAD SOCIETY, 

This reply seemed to tranquillize Tyburzy some- 
what. 

^^Ten days ! So long- ! ” he exclaimed, looking 
me in the face. “Have you blabbed to any- 
body?'' 

“No." 

“On your honor ? " 

“ On my honor." 

^‘Bene/ Good! This makes me hope that as 
you have not blabbed in the past neither will you 
blab in the future. But I always had a good opin- 
ion of you from seeing you so often rambling 
about. A genuine street boy, though a judge's son. 
Now, will you judge us ? Come now, tell me 1 " 
Tyburzy 's tone, though bantering was quite good- 
natured, but I still bore him a grudge for hand- 
ling me so roughly, and I answered gruffly : — 

“ 1 am not a judge ; I am Vasio." 

“ The one does not preclude the other. Vasio 
may also be a judge — in time. It is an old story, 
my friend. As you see, I am Tyburzy, and he — 
is Valek. I am a beggar, so is he. To speak 
plainly, I steal, so will he. Your father judges 
me, and when your time comes you will judge 
Valek." 

“I shall not judge Valek," I returned angrily. 
“ It is not true. " 


TYBURZY ARREARS OAT THE SCENE, 257 

“No! He won’t judge Valek/’ piped Marusia 
indignantly, as if she resented as much as I did 
the charge which her father had made against me ; 
and then she crept up to him, and he laid his hand 
tenderly on her fair curls. 

“Don’t pledge yourself beforehand,” said the 
strange man, as seriously as if he were addressing 
a grown-up person. “Don’t pledge yourself be- 
forehand, amice. It is an old story which is al- 
ways new. To every man his own lot. Suum 
cuique. Let every one follow the path traced out 
for him, and it is well that yours for a moment has 
crossed ours. It is well for you, amice ; because, 
look you, it is better even for a judge to have a 
human heart than a heart of stone. Do you under- 
stand ? ” 

I did not, yet I was all attention, for the man 
attracted me strangely, and his keen eyes seemed 
to be reading my inmost thoughts. 

“Of course you don’t understand. You are too 
syoung for the comprehension of higher things. 
Mind, therefore, what I am going to tell you, so 
that in the time to come you may keep in memory 
the words of Tyburzy the philosopher. If you 
should have to sit in judgment on this lad, remem- 
ber that even at the time when he and you wer^ 

17 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


258 

play-fellows together you belonged to a world 
where people went about in broadcloth and well 
fed, while he wore rags which, as often as not, 
covered an empty belly. But until that time comes 
remember also another thing (hereTyburzy’s man- 
ner became harsh and menacing), remember that 
if you betray us to your father, or even to a bird 
flying in the air, I will hang you head downward 
over a fire and make smoked ham of you. Do you 
understand ? ” 

“Perfectly. I shall blab to nobody. May I 
come again ? ” 

“ Well, granted — sub conditionem. But you don’t 
understand Latin. You are too young and foolish. 
Don’t forget what I said just now about smoked 
ham.” 

And then, letting me go, Tyburzy stretched him- 
self wearily on a long settle which stood against 
the wall. 

“There is something,” he observed to Valek, 
pointing to a big basket which he had put on the 
floor when he came in. “There is something 
here. We shall dine to-day.” 

He was no longer the same man who a few 
minutes previously had frightened me with fierce 
looks and terrible threats, nor the buffoon who was 


TYBURZY ARREARS ON THE SCENE. 259 

wont to amuse the public for a few coppers. He 
was the father returning to the bosom of the family, 
after a hard day’s work. 

He seemed very tired ; his rags were sodden, 
and his damp hair clung to his forehead. There 
was a worn look on his face which I had some- 
times observed on the faces of frequenters of tav- 
erns. It was the face of a player behind the scenes 
after the performance of a difficult piece on the 
stage — a novel sight to me, like many another 
which I saw at the chapel. 

Valek and I went to work with a will. He 
lighted a splinter of resinous wood, and we went 
into a dark passage where, in a recess in the wall, 
was a quantity of firewood — broken pieces of 
crosses, old boards, wind-fallen branches and such 
like. Wifh this we made a fire in a corner of the 
cavern, where a hearth and a chimney had been 
contrived. Then I withdrew, and left the cooking 
of Tyburzy’s spoil to my more experienced friend. 

In half-an-hour he put on the three-legged table ' 
a dish of porridge and a savory ragout, served in 
the frying-pan in which it had been cooked. 

Tyburzy rose from the settle. 

“All is ready ! ” he exclaimed, “ come and eat 
with us, young sir ; you have earned your dinner. 


26 o 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


Now, Domine,” to the professor, “lay down your 
needle and share in our feast/’ 

“At once,” said the professor in a low voice, 
rather surprising me by the reasonableness of his 
answer. 

But the spark of intelligence which Tyburzy had 
called forth did not reappear. The old man stuck 
the needle in his rags and seated himself at the 
table with the listless indifference of imbecility. 

Marusia sat on her father’s lap. Valek and she 
ate with an avidity which showed that butcher 
meat was a luxury they seldom enjoyed. After 
every mouthful Marusia greedily licked her dirty 
little fingers. Tyburzy ate slowly and deliberately ; 
and, as if yielding to an imperative necessity to 
speak, addressed frequent remarks to the professor. 
The poor scholar listened with seeming attention, 
leaning forward and nodding his head as if he un- 
derstood every word — at times even going so far 
as to give an approving nod or sympathetic grunt. 

* “Does it never strike you, Domine,” observed 
Tyburzy, “ does it never strike you with how little 
a man may be content ? Now we have eaten and 
drunk, and our hearts are merry, and for these good 
things have only to thank God and the Abbot of 
Clevan.” 


TYBURZY ARREARS OAT THE SCENE, 261 

“ Yes, yes,’' grunted the professor. 

“You say ‘yes ’to everything, Domine, as is 
your wont. Yet you don’t understand that but for 
the Abbot we should have had neither meat nor 
aught else to-day.” 

“ It was he who gave it you, then ? ” I put in. 

^ “You see, Domine, the lad has an inquiring 
mind,” observed Tyburzy, addressing himself, as 
before, to the old man. “And he is quite right in 
his supposition ; for, as a matter of fact, we are in- 
debted to his Eminence for all that we are enjoying, 
though we did not precisely ask him for it. It was 
not merely a case of the right hand not knowing 
what the left was giving ; to tell the truth, neither 
of his hands had aught to do with it.” 

From these vague and enigmatic remarks I only 
gathered that the method whereby the provisions 
in question had been acquired was somewhat un- 
common, and I could not refrain from putting 
another question : — 

“You took it then — yourself.?” 

“The lad is not devoid of perspicacity, Domine. 
It is a pity he has not seen the Abbot in proprid 
persond. His Eminence’s belly is as big as a beer- 
barrel, owing to excessive indulgence in the pleas- 
ures of the table — to the great injury of his diges- 
tion. We, on the other hand, suffer from being 


262 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


over-thin and scanty fare, wherefore a little flesh 
diet will do us good. Am I right, Domine " 

“Yes, yes,” answered the professor in his pensive 
guttural. 

“This time you give your assent reasonably and 
in the right place. I am glad of it, for I was be- 
ginning to think that this lad had more brains than 
certain scholars. . . . Reverting, however, to our 
subject : I think that a good lesson is worth its price, 
and on that assumption we may say that we have 
paid for these provisions ; and if the Abbot makes 
his larder more secure for the future he will prob- 
ably avoid paying for other and more costly les- 
sons. However” — turning to me — “you are still 
too much of a simpleton to understand these things. 
But my Marusia does. Tell me, darling, was it 
good for me to bring you this meat } ” 

“Good ! ’ replied the child, with glistening eyes. 
“ Marusia was hungry.” 

In the evening I went home with my mind in a 
sort of fog. Tyburzy’s strange arguments had not 
for one moment shaken my conviction that it was 
wrong to steal. Rather had they strengthened that 
conviction, and intensified the sense of pain with 
which I had first learnt that these people lived by 
pilfering. They were beggars and thieves. I had 


TYBURZY APPEARS ON THE SCENE. 263 

been taught that begging and thieving were equally 
despicable, and I felt a contemptuous bitterness for 
their way of life rising in my mind. Nevertheless, 
I considered my affection for the tw’o forlorn chil- 
dren as a thing apart, to be jealously guarded from 
the intruding influence of unworthier feelings. The 
result of this vague mental process was an increase 
of pity for Valek and Marusia, which drew closer 
the bonds which united us. My belief that it was 
wrong to steal remained unshaken ; but when I 
remembered Marusia’s face, as the child licked her 
greasy fingers, I could not help rejoicing that Valek 
and she had been enabled for once to eat their fill. 

In the dark avenue of our garden I unexpectedly 
stumbled against my father. He was pacing to 
and fro, with his usual dejected air and absent 
look. When he saw me, he laid his hand on my 
shoulder, and asked where I had been, to which I 
answered : — 

“Taking a walk.” This was not strictly true, 
and it was, I think, the first untrue thing I had 
ever said. 

My father regarded me closely, as if he had it 
in his mind to tell me something. But he merely 
waved his hand, and resumed his solitary walk. 

I had always been afraid of my father. I was 


264 bad society. 

now more afraid of him than ever. There was a 
whole world of vague questions and strange ideas 
surging in my mind of which he knew nothing. 
Could I, without breaking my word and betraying 
my friends, make him my confidant } I trembled 
at the thought that he might some day hear of my 
relations with bad society. All the same, it was 
impossible for me to sever my connection there- 
with, and abandon Valek and Marusia. 


AUTUMN. 


265 


VIII 

AUTUMN. 

Autumn was drawing near. The reapers were 
busy in the cornfields, the leaves were turning 
brown and yellow, the nights were lengthening — 
and Marusia began to droop. 

She had no particular complaint, she merely 
faded away, slowly and painlessly. Her face grew 
paler, her eyes darkened and became larger, and 
she raised the lids with ever-increasing difficulty. 

I could now go to the mountain and get into the 
cavern without difficulty. If I had been one of 
them, the outcasts could not have received me 
more cordially, or treated me with greater kind- 
ness. 

“You are a smart boy, and some day you will 
be a general,” Turkevich often said to me. 

The younger members of the fraternity made me 
bows and arrows and arquebuses. Zarisailoff, the 
long-legged, red-nosed corporal, threw me in the 
air like a ball by way of teaching me gymnastics,^ 


266 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


Only two of them — the Professor and Lavrosky — 
took no notice of me. The former seemed always 
absorbed in thought ; and Lavrosky, when he was 
sober, avoided human society, and liked to hide 
himself in dark corners. 

All these people lived apart from Tyburzy, who 
with his family occupied the cavern to which I was 
first introduced. The others lived in a similar 
dwelling of larger dimensions, which communi- 
cated with the smaller one by a narrow passage. 
It was even darker and damper than the den which 
Tyburzy called his own. Round the walls were 
ranged wooden settles, and a few logs that served 
as stools. The settles, which were covered with 
rags, served also* as sleeping-places. Directly 
under the skylight was a joiner’s bench at which 
Tyburzy and some of the younger outcasts occa- 
sionally worked. But except Tyburzy, they were 
all either unskilled amateurs or confirmed sots, 
whose hands trembled so much that they could 
scarce hold their tools. The floor of the larger 
cavern was always littered with shavings, rubbish, 
and dirt ,* though Tyburzy scolded and abused his 
companions for their untidiness, and every now and 
then compelled them to sweep up, and make their 
gloomy abode less offensive. 


AUTUMN, 267 

But into this place I seldom went. I could 
neither breathe, without discomfort, its foul air, nor 
bear the presence of Lavrosky, who, when he was 
sober, spent here the greater part of his time — 
either sitting in a corner with his head clasped be- 
tween his hands, or pacing feverishly to and fro. 
There was an air of hopeless misery about the man, 
which positively oppressed me. But his compan- 
ions were so much accustomed to his eccentricities 
that they had ceased to see anything unusual in 
them. General Turkevich sometimes employed 
him as secretary, giving him petitions and other 
pettifogging documents to copy, and dictating lam- 
poons and scurrilous compositions which the author 
himself would paste on the town walls after dark. 
Lavrosky always put himself obediently to the task, 
and covered quires of paper with his beautiful 
handwriting. Twice, when I was in the cavern, I 
saw Lavrosky brought' home helplessly drunk, his 
head hanging down, his long hair trailing in the 
mud, his legs and arms striking against the walls 
and the steps. On these occasions Marusia and I, 
pressing fearfully together, watched the scene from 
the furthest corner. But Valek moved freely among 
the grown-up people, supporting now the head, 
now the arms or the legs of the miserable man. 


268 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


Now that I was admitted behind the scenes, all 
that I had found so amusing when those people 
were playing their tricks in the streets, appeared 
to me sad and pitiful, and painfully affected my 
childish heart. 

Of this underground world, Tyburzy was the 
undisputed lord and master. All its inhabitants rec- 
ognized him as their leader, and obeyed him as 
their chief. To this fact I probably owe it, that 
none of these men, albeit they had undoubtedly lost 
God’s image, ever approached me with a dishonora- 
ble proposition. Now that I have grown older, and 
become experienced in the world’s ways, I know, 
of course, how vicious was the life led by the out- 
casts of the cavern. But when I call to mind these 
incidents of my childhood, I see, through the mists 
of the past, only the tragic and human side of 
their characters and careers. 

Childhood and youth are the chief sources of 
idealism. 

The year sped on ; autumn was nearly past, and 
the weather worsened. Bright days were few and 
far between ; thick clouds covered the sky and hid 
the sun ; the rain came down noisily, filling the 
cavern with a hollow, monotonous rumble. 

It was naturally very awkward and inconvenient 


AUTUMN. 269 

for me to get away from home in such weather as 
this. I had to slip out of the house unobserved, 
and when I returned in the evening, wet through 
and through, I spread my clothes before the fire to 
dry, and bore, with philosophic resignation, the re- 
proaches of the nurse and the maids. 

Whenever I went to the mountain after a few 
days absence, I observed a marked change in 
Marusia. The poor child faded before my eyes. 
She seldom ventured into the chapel-yard. The 
Gray Stone — the dark, silent monster of the cavern 
— continued its work without surcease, sucking the 
life out of her little body. She spent the greater 
part of her time in bed, and Valek and I did our 
utmost to amuse her, and make her laugh her old 
silvery laugh. 

I had become so familiar with these people, and 
so intimate with the two children, that Marusia’s 
sad smile was almost as dear to me as Sonia's. 
I was more at home in this bad society than in 
my father’s house. None of the outcasts ever 
spoke of my evil propensities, or reproached me 
with my faults, imaginary or real. I was always 
welcome, and I knew that I was useful. My ar- 
rival always brought a flush of color to Marusia's 
pale cheeks, and the light of gladness to her eyes. 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


270 

Valek embraced me as a brother, and often Tyburzy 
looked at us with strange eyes, wherein -something 
very like a tear seemed to glisten. 

After a time the weather improved. The clouds 
drifted away, and for the last time before the ad- 
vent of winter, we had brighter days. We could 
take Marusia out-of-doors, and the fresh air and 
the sunshine appeared to revive her. She gazed 
round with wide-open eyes, and her cheeks look- 
ed less pallid and deathlike. It seemed as if the 
wind and the sun were giving her back some part 
of the life of which she was being bereft by the 
Gray Stone. 

But this did not last long. ... 

Meanwhile clouds were gathering over my own 
head. 

One morning as I passed through the garden, I 
saw my father walking down the avenue, accom- 
panied by old Yanush from the castle. The old 
man was bowing obsequiously and making an 
important communication, to which my father 
stopped to listen, an angry frown on his brow. 
At length he waved his hand peremptorily, as if to 
drive Yanush away. 

''I do not believe one word of it," I heard him 
say. '‘What want you with these people.? Where 


AUTUMAT, 


271 

are your proofs? I can accept no mere verbal 
denunciation, and a written denuciation must be 
proved. Begone, I decline to hear you ! ” 

Here my father made so energetic a gesture that 
Yanush dared not insist further, and each of them 
went his way. 

I disliked and distrusted the old fox from the 
castle. I felt sure that his visit to our house boded 
no good, and I had little doubt that his conversation 
with my father referred to my friends, perhaps to 
myself. 

When I told Tyburzy what had happened, he 
made an expressive grimace. 

“ Ah, my lad, this is bad news you bring. Oh, 
the cursed old fox ! ” 

“But my father sent him packing,” I observed, 
by way of consolation. 

“ Your father, my lad, is the best judge the world 
has seen since the reign of King Solomon. But, 
do you know what curriculum vitce means ? Of 
course you don't. I daresay, though, you know 
what a ‘service list’ is. Well, curriculum vitce is 
just the ‘service list’ of a man who has not served 
anywhere, and if the old owl from the castle has 
smelt a rat, and can bring proofs of his statement to 
your father-^We}!^ the Holy Virgin, I should 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


272 

not in that case * like to fall into his 
hands/’ 

‘"Is he so cruel? ” 

'‘No, no ! God forbid that I should say aught 
but good of your father. He is a man with a heart. 
Maybe he already suspects what Yanush has told 
him, yet shuts his eyes, not wanting to rout a 
wounded old creature out of his last refuge. . . . 
How shall I explain the matter to you? You see, 
your father serves a master whose name is ‘law.’ 
He has bowels only so long as this master of his 
remains quietly on the shelf. But when he wakens 
up, slips down, and says. ‘Well judge, don’t you 
think the time is come to give a little of your atten- 
tion to that fellow Tyburzy Drab, or whatever his 
name may be? ’ When he receives this order — for 
that is what it comes to — your father’s heart turns 
to stone, and his hands become so hard and far- 
reaching that there is no escaping them. 

“ Do you understand now ? And that is why we 
all respect your father so much. He serves his 
master faithfully, and such people are scarce. If 
all servants of the law were like your father, it might 
take a very long nap on the shelf. The pity of it 
in my case is, that once upon a time — now long 


AUTUMN, 


273 

ago — I had a fight with the 'law, and a very bitter 
fight it was.” 

This reminiscence seemed to set Tyburzy a 
thinking. He remained pensively silent for several 
minutes, and then, abruptly rising, he took Marusia 
in his arms, kissed her passionately and clasped 
her to his breast. 

I stood there watching him for a long time, my 
mind full of strange thoughts. 

Notwithstanding the obscurity of his speech I 
was under no misapprehension as to its significance. 
My father appeared to me strong and great, and 
as if crowned with an aureole. Yet my pride in 
him was mingled with the bitter thought : — “And 
still he does not love me ! ” 


JN BAD SOCIETY. 


374 


IX. 

THE DOLL. 

When the bright days were irrevocably past Ma- 
rusia grew rapidly worse. Our efforts to amuse 
her were of no avail. She merely looked at us 
with her large sunken eyes ; and her little silvery 
laugh was seldom or never heard. I took her dolls 
of my own making ; but as she did not seem to 
care for them, I resolved to apply to my sister. 

Sonia had a big doll, with a pretty painted face 
and thick flaxen hair, the gift of our departed 
mother. I thought a great deal of that doll, and 
one morning I took Sonia aside and asked her to 
lend it me for a while. I begged so earnestly, and 
described so vividly the poor sick girl who had no 
dolls of her own, that though at first she refused, 
pressing the doll jealously to her bosom, she end- 
ed by giving her consent, and promised that for 
two or three days she would play with other toys 
and say nothing about the doll. 


THE DOLL. 


275 

The effect of this Chinese beauty on my little 
friend surpassed my most sanguine expectations. 
Marusia, who was fading away like the last rose of 
summer, revived like a flower in spring. She 
kissed me so effusively, laughed so heartily, and 
talked to her new acquaintance so merrily, that I 
congratulated myself warmly on the success of my 
device. The doll seemed to have wrought a mir- 
acle Marusia, who for a fortnight had not risen from 
her bed, got up and began to walk, leading by the 
hand her fair nursling, sometimes even attempting 
to run. 

But to me, personally, the doll brought serious 
trouble. As I was taking her to the mountain, 
hidden under my coat, I fell in with old Yanush, 
who followed me a long time, suspiciously shaking 
his head. Then, after a day or two the old nurse, 
missing the doll, sought for it high and low. Sonia 
by her naive protests that she need not trouble about 
the doll, that it was merely gone out fora walk and 
would be back presently, only made matters worse 
and confirmed the nurse in the suspicions which 
she had already begun to entertain. As yet, my 
father knew nothing of this, but soon Yanush made 
him another visit, and though he was again re- 
pulsed, my father stopped me in the garden and 


IN' BAD SOCIETY. 


276 

bade me stay at home.' The next day and the day 
after that the order was repeated, but on the fourth 
morning I rose early and ran off to the mountain 
before my father was up. 

There, things were gone from bad to worse. 
Marusia was in bed, in a state of high fever. She 
did not recognise me, her face was flushed, her 
hair strewn on her pillow. By her side lay the un- 
lucky doll, with its rosy cheeks and stupid beady 
eyes. 

I told Valek of my apprehensions, and we de- 
cided that it was advisable to take back the doll 
forthwith, all the more so as it could now be done 
without Marusia’s knowledge and, consequently, 
without giving her pain. In this, however, we 
were mistaken. I had no sooner removed the play- 
thing than the poor child, opening her eyes, looked 
vacantly before her, and though she neither recog- 
nised us nor understood what had happened, she 
began sobbing most pitifully. At the same time 
her thin transparent face became so grief-stricken, 
even through the mist of delirium, that I was 
frightened, and hastily replaced the doll in its for- 
mer position. On this, she smiled, took the doll 
tenderly in her arms, and grew calm again. It 
was evident that I could not take it away from 


THE DOLL. 


277 


her without depriving my little friend of the first 
and last joy of her short life. 

Valek regarded me timidly. 

“What is to be done.?” he asked in a troubled 
voice. Tyburzy, who sat despondent on the settle, 
gave me an inquiring glance. 

“Never mind ! The nurse has probably forgot- 
ten all about the doll by this time,” I said, with as 
much indifference as I could assume. 

But nurse had not forgotten. As I went home 
I met Yanush at the gate once more. I found 
Sonia in tears, and the old woman eyed me angrily, 
muttering something with her toothless mouth that 
sounded like a threat. 

My father asked me where I had been, and on 
receiving my usual reply bade me take no more 
walks outside the garden without his permission. 
This order was so peremptorily given that I dared 
not disobey it ; and when I would have asked for 
permission my courage failed me. 

Thus passed four anxious days. I strolled in 
the garden, looking wistfully toward the mountain, 
and expecting every moment the breaking of the 
storm which I knew was gathering over my head. 
What would happen I could not tell. I did not 
know what it was to be punished, for though my 
7 


278 bad society. 

father neglected me he had never laid his hand on 
me or even given me a harsh word. But now I 
feared the worst. 

At last I was summoned to his study. I obeyed 
the call promptly, but when I reached the room I 
stopped timidly at the open door. The pale 
autumn sun was looking in through the window. 
My father sat in his arm-chair before our mother s 
portrait. He seemed unconscious of my presence ; 
and I could hear the anxious beating of my heart. 

At last he turned to me. I raised my eyes to 
him, but, awed by his angry looks, I lowered them 
at once. Though for at least half a minute he did 
not speak I felt that he was still sternly regarding 
me. 

“You have taken your sister's doll ! ” he said. 
At these words I shuddered, so harsh and cold was 
the tone in which they were uttered. 

“Yes," I said, in a low voice. 

“Though you knew it was a present from your 
mother to Sonia, and which you therefore ought to 
have held sacred. You stole it.” 

“No," I said, raising my head, and looking him 
in the face. 

“ How dare you ! " exclaimed my father spring- 
ing from his chair. 


THE DOLL. 


279 

*‘You stole it and took it away. To whom did 
you take it ? 

“Answer me! Out with it I To whom did you 
take the doll?" 

He came to me and laid a heavy hand on my 
shoulder. Again I raised my eyes to his — with a 
great effort. His face was pale ; the -wrinkle 
which, since my mother’s death, suffering had 
traced between his eyebrows, was deeper than 
ever, and his eyes blazed with anger. 

1 shuddered again. 

In those eyes, the eyes of my father, I saw 
madness — or hatred. 

“Why are you dumb? Speak out!" and the 
hand gave my shoulder a tighter grip. 

“ I won’t ! ’’ I murmured. 

“Yes, you will," said my father sternly and 
menacingly. 

“ I won’t," I repeated, almost inaudibly. 

“You will, you will." 

His voice was hollow. It seemed to me that he 
was trying hard to master his passion. The hand 
on my shoulder trembled, and I thought I could 
hear rage surging in his breast. I bent my head 
lower and lower, and the tears which filled my eyes 
fell one after the other on the floor. But again I 
repeated ; — 


28 o 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


“No, I won’t. . . . Never!” 

I was resolved to keep my secret, however 
severely I might be punished. To my father’s 
anger I mentally opposed the inarticulate reproaches 
of a forlorn child, and the deep love which I 
cherished for those whom he would have had me 
betray. 

He breathed heavily, I shrunk within myself 
still more. Bitter tears rolled down my cheeks. 
I waited. 

It is difficult to describe truly what were my 
feelings at that moment. I knew that he was in 
the very agony of an unspeakable passion, and 
that in another moment I might be writhing in the 
furious grasp of his powerful hands. 

“What will he do with me? Will he kill me? ” 
I asked myself. Yet I do not think it was exactly 
this that I dreaded. Even at that terrible moment 
I loved my father, and I instinctively felt and 
feared that by one act of violence he might turn 
my love into hatred as intense as that which 
flashed upon nie from his furious dark eyes. 

I ended by losing all sense of fear, and feeling 
instead insolently defiant. I would, if I could, 
have hastened the catastrophe with which I was 
threatened. 

If he must kill me, let it be so. . . . So much 


THE DOLL, 


281 


the better, so much the* better. This was the 
burden of my thoughts, while he held me in his 
grasp and my fate trembled in the balance. 

My father sighed. I had ceased looking at him 
but I heard him sigh — deeply, nervously. 

Whether he had succeeded in stifling his anger 
or it was going to blaze out in some act of vio- 
lence I never knew. I knew only that at this crit- 
ical moment a voice, the shrill voice, of Tyburzy, 
was heard through the open window. 

‘‘Oh, I come in the very nick of time it seems,’' 
he cried. 

“ It 's Tyburzy,” I said to myself. But his com- 
ing made no impression on me. I was convinced 
that nothing on earth, least of all the presence of 
this vagabond, could avert the catastrophe which 
I now regarded as inevitable, and which I expected 
with a sense of angry defiance. 

Meanwhile, Tyburzy walked into the house, and, 
pausing at the study door, took in the situation 
with a single glance of his lynx-like eyes. I can 
still recall every detail of that striking scene. 

For a moment a malignant smile gleamed in the 
outcast’s greenish eyes ; but only for a moment. 
Then shaking his head, he said, rather regretfully 
than- ironically : — 


282 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


“I perceive that my young friend is in evil 
case.” 

My father gave him a threatening look, which 
Tyburzy met without flinching. He was now 
quite serious, making some of his characteristic 
grimaces, and his eyes were unusually sad. 

“Sir,” he said softly to my father, “ sir, you are 
an upright man. . . . Let the child alone. True, 
he has been in bad company, but, as God is my wit- 
ness, he took part in no evil deed ; only his compas- 
sionate heart feels for my poor ragamuffins, and, by 
the Holy Virgin, I would rather go to the gallows 
than let him suffer for his sympathy. Here is your 
doll, my lad.” (Undoing a small parcel, and pro- 
ducing the pretty painted thing). 

My father’s face looked intense surprise ; the grasp 
on my shoulder relaxed. 

“ What does it all mean ? ” he demanded. 

“ Let the boy alone,” repeated the outcast, laying 
his large palm lovingly on my drooping head. 
“By threats you will get nothing out of him, but 
I am most willing to tell you all you desire to know. 
Can I have a word with you in another room, sir } ” 

My father’s surprise seemed to increase ; but he 
accepted Tyburzy’s proposal without hesitation, 
and they left the study together. I stayed where 


THE DOLL. 283 

I was, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, 
which I cannot describe, and if now I am able to 
recall the minutest detail of this episode in my life — 
even that sparrows were fighting before the win- 
dow and silvery ripples running rhythmically 
athwart the fish-pond — it is by a merely mechanical 
effort of memory. 

Nothing external existed for me at that time. 
There was only a little boy in whose breast love 
and hatred were contending so fiercely for mas- 
tery that he was conscious of nought else. That 
boy was myself, and I feel keen pity for him. 
There was besides a hum of voices in the next 
room, speaking with animation, albeit indistinctly. 

Meanwhile, I did not move, and when the talk- 
ers returned to the study, I was standing with 
bent head exactly as they had left me. Once again 
I felt a hand laid on my head, and there was a 
touch in it that sent a thrill through my whole 
body. It was my father's hand gently stroking 
my hair. 

Tyburzy took me in his arms, and put me on his 
lap. 

Come to us,” he said. Father gives you 
leave. Come and take a last look at poorMarusia. 
She — she is dead. ” 

His voice was tremulous, his eyes were filled 


284 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


with tears. After a moment s silence he put me 
quietly down, rose from his seat, and abruptly 
quitted the room. 

I looked at my father, wondering, for it appeared 
to me as if he had become another man, and in 
that man I recognized the ideal father whom I had 
once so dearly loved. He returned my glance 
with his usual pensive air, but I saw in his eyes a 
look of surprise and an unspoken question. It 
seemed as if the storm that had just passed over us 
had dispelled the mist which aforetime obscured 
my father’s vision, and that he discerned in me for 
the first time the familiar traits of his own son. 

“You know now that I did not steal the doll,” I 
said, putting my hand confidingly in his. “Sonia 
lent it to me.” 

I know, ” he returned thoughtfully. “ Yes, I 
know, I have deeply wronged you, Vasio. But 
you will try to forget it. Won’t you ? ” 

I took his hand again, and covered it with kisses. 
I knew that he would never more look at me with 
those dreadful eyes, and the long-suppressed affec- 
tion which I had borne him rekindled in my heart. 
Love had banished fear. 

“ You will let me go to the mountain ? ” I said, 
remembering Tyburzy’s invitation. 


I 


THE DOLL. 


285 

“Yes, go, dearboy^ and take your last look of 
the poor child, ” he said tenderly, yet with the 
same touch of wonder in his voice as before. 

“ Go ! . . . But stay ; I will be back in a few 
minutes. ” 

And with that he went to his bedroom, whence 
he presently returned, holding in his hand a bunch 
Of bank-notes. 

“Give these to Tyburzy,” he charged me, “ and 
say that I earnestly entreat him — be sure you re- 
member — say that I earnestly entreat him to accept 
this money, as from you. Do you understand ? 
Say also ” (this with seeming hesitation) “say, also, 
that if he knows aught of a certain — Fedorovitch 
— let him tell this Fedorovitch that it would be well 
for him to leave the neighborhood. Now go, 
Vasio, and be quick.” 

I did go quickly, and, overtaking Tyburzy as he 
ascended the mountain, gave him, somewhat inco- 
herently, my father's message. 

“ Earnestly begs — my father — from me ; ” and I 
put the bank-notes into his hand without looking 
him in the face. He took the money, and listened 
silently to the warning about Fedorovitch. 

In a corner of the cavern lay all that was left of 
Marusia. 


286 


IN BAD SOCIETY, 


The word ** death” has not the same meaning 
for children as adults, and it was only when I saw 
the lifeless body of my little friend that I realized 
this. She was indeed gone, and tears of grief rose 
to my eyes. She lay serious and motionless, a sad 
expression on her poor drawn face. The closed 
eyes w’ere more deeply sunken ; the blue shadows 
around them darker and more distinctly defined. 
The mouth was slightly open, as if Marusia were 
conscious of a childish sorrow reponsive to our 
tears. 

The Professor stood by shaking his head list- 
lessly. Zousailov was at work on a coffin. Lav_ 
rosky, now quite sober, was decking the body with 
flowers which he had himself gathered in the fields. 
Valek was asleep on the settle, now and then sob- 
bing convulsively. 


EPILOGUE, 


287 


EPILOGUE. 

Shortly after Marusia was laid in the ground the 
outcast community disappeared. Only the Pro- 
fessor, who continued to ramble about the town 
so long as he lived, and Turkevich, to whom my 
father gave now and then a little work in the way 
of copying, remained in the neighborhood. Zou- 
sailov and his fellows migrated, as was presumed, 
in search of better fortune. What became of 
Tyburzy and Valek I never heard. 

In the course of the next few years time laid his 
hand heavily on the old chapel. First of all, the 
roof fell in, breaking the ceilings of the vaults and 
caverns, and filling them with rubbish. The piles 
of gray stone, which dropped from the walls and 
cumbered the ground, gave the place a still more 
depressing aspect, and the owls in the courtyard 
hooted more dismally than ever. 

One grave only was carefully tended, fenced in 
with neat palings, covered with fresh turf, and 
planted with wild flowers. 


288 


IN BAD SOCIETY. 


Sonia and I visited it often. We liked to sit 
there, under the murmuring boughs of the beech- 
trees, and look down on the little town which 
loomed in the distance. Here we read and talked, 
built castles in the air, and discussed the winged 
aspirations of generous youth. 

And when the time came for us to leave our 
quiet home and go out into the wide world, we 
exchanged over that dear grave assurances of 
unalterable love. 


THE END. 




LOVELL’S International series— Continued. 


No. Cts, 

yy. W HOSE WAS THE HAND? M. E. 

Brad don 50 

100. The Blind Musician. Step- 

iiiak and William Westall 50 
lul. The House on the Scar. 

Bertha Thomas 50 

102. The Wages OF Sin. L. Malet 50 
lO^l. The Phantom 'Rickshaw. 

Rudyard Kipling 50 

104. The Love of a Lady. Annie 

Thomas 50 

105. IIow Came He Dead? J. 

Fitzgerald Molloy 50 

106. The Vicomte’s Bride. Esme 

Stuart 50 

107. A Reverend Gentleman. 

J. Maclaren Cobban 50 

108. Notes from the ‘News.’ 

James Payn 50 

109. The Keeper of the Keys. 

F. W. Robinson 50 

110. The Scudamores. F. C. 

Philips and C. J. Wills. . . . .50 

111. The Confessions of a 

Woman. Mabel Collins. . 50 

112. Sowing THE Wind. E.Lynn 

Linton 50 

114. Margaret Byng. P. C. 

Philips 50 

115. For One and the World. 

M. Betham-Edwards 50 

116. Princess Sunshine. Mrs, J, 

11. Riddell 50 

117. Sloane Square Scandal. 

Annie Thomas 50 

118. The Night of the 3d Ult. 

H. F. Wood.; 50 

119. Quite Another Story. 

Jean Ingelow 50 

120. Heart OF Gold. L T. Meade 50 

121. The Word and the Will. 

James Payn 50 

122. Dumps. Mrs. Louisa Parr.. 50 

123. The Black Box Murder. 

By the man who discovered 
ttie murderer 50 

124. The Great Mill St. Mys- 

tery*. Adeline Sergeant 50 

125. Between Life and Death. 

Frank Barrett 50 


126. Name and Fame. Adeline 

Sergeant and Ewing Lester 50 

127. Dramas OF Life. G. R. Sims. 50 

128. Lover or Friend? Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 50 

129. Famous or Infamous. Ber- 

tha Thomas 50 

ICO. The House of Halliwell. 

Mrs. Henry Wood 50 

1.31. Ruffino. Quid a ‘. 50 

132. Alas! Rhoda Broughton. .. 50 

133. Basil and Annette. B. L, 

Farjeon 50 

134. The Demoniac. W. Besant 50 

135. Brave Heart and True. 

Florence Marrvat 50 

136. Lady Maude’s Mania. G. 

Manville Fenn .^0 

1-37. Marcia. W. E. Norris 50 

138. Wormwood. Marij Cordli. 50 


No. cts. 

139. The Honorable Miss. L. 

T. Meade 50 

149. A BitterBirthright. Dora 

Russell 50 

141. A Double Knot. G. M. Fenn 50 

142. A Hidden Foe. G. A Henty 50 
14.3. Urith. S. Baring- Gould. . . 50 

144. Brooke's Daughter. By 

Adeline Sergeant 50 

145. A Mint of Money. George 

Manville Fenn 50 

146. A Lost Illusion. By Leslie 

Keith 50 

147. Forestalled, By M. Beth- 

am-Edwards 50 

148. The Risen Dead, By Flor- 

ence Marry at 50 

149. The Roll of Honor. By 

Annie Thomas 50 

150. A Baffling Quest. By 

Richard Dowling 50 

151. The Laird o’ Cockpen. By 

Rita ’ 50 

152. A Life for a Love. By L. 

T. Meade 50 

153. Mine Own People. By 

Rudyard Kipling 50 

1.54. Eight Day* 8. By R. E. Forrest 50 

155. The Heart of a Maid. By 

Beatrice Kipling 50 

156. The Heir Presumptive and 

Heir Apparent. By Mrs. 
Oliphant 50 

157. In the Heart op the Storm. 

By Maxwell Gray 50 

158. An Old Maid’s Love. By 

Maarten Maartens 50 

159. There Is No Death. By 

Florence Marryat 50 

160. The Soul op Countess 

Adrian. By Mrs. Camp- 
bell-Praed 50 

161. For the Defence. By B. 

L. Far jeon 50 

162. Sunny Stories and Some 

Shady Ones, By J. Payne 50 

163. Eric Brighteyes. H. Rider 

Haggard 50 


164. My First Love and My Last 

Love. Mrs. J H. Riddell 50 

165. The World, The Flesh, AND 

The Devil. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 50 

166. He Fell Among Thieves. By 

David Christie Murray and 
Henry Herman 50 

167. Ties— Human Ai^p Divine. 

By B. L. Farjeon 50 

168. The Freaks of Lady For- 

tune. By May < 'rommelin 50 
169 Out OF Eden. Dora Russell. 50 

170. A Fatal Past. Dora Russell 50 

171. Miss Wentworth’s Idea. By 

W. F. Norris 50 

172. A Golden Dream. George 

Manville Fenn 50 

17,3. In Luck’s Way. J. S. Winter 50 

174. Olga’s Crime. F. Barrett.. 50 

175. The Horned Cat. J. Mac- 

Laren Co’obaa <50 



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